More than Meets the Eye
by Tonks-is-cool
Summary: OOTP AU: Harry has suffered through a horrid summer when the Dementors attack him. What if Lucius Malfoy rescues the boy and Voldemort discovers with Nagini's help that there is so much more to Potter than meets the Eye? Not only Harry's world is turned upside down! Truths and loyalties are challenged on both sides of the conflict. How will Sirius or Severus react? Grey!Harry.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer:_ This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, Warner Bros., Inc. and Sony (Pottermore). No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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><p><strong>More than Meets the Eye<strong>

by Tonks-is-cool

Chapter 1

Somewhere in Wiltshire, England, August 2nd 1995.

Pop.

Crack.

Twin Apparitions disturbed the sultry summer night, but the tall wizard sitting in his study on the first floor did not look out of the partly opened window, he just glanced at an antique clock on the wall. Twenty-five minutes past nine.

This was a wizard home, a mansion of an old pure-blood family, so a person Apparating or Disapparating nearby was nothing uncommon. The wards hid the country house amidst woodland, parkland and large gardens from Muggles and repelled magical visitors to outside the high yew hedge and wrought iron gate, so there was no reason to be alarmed at the noise. Through his connection to their Dark Marks he felt Malfoy and Avery returning.

Hm, hadn't they left less than twenty minutes ago? He absently wondered. Oh well, if they have any news, they will come and report.

The pale, snake-like man focused his attention back on a blueprint of a large building and an open journal, the pages covered in neat columns of figures and runes, continuing his planning and Arithmancy calculations of possible infiltration scenarios.

On the right side of the room was an unlit fireplace, with a simple, but elegant Italian style mantelpiece. Opposite the desk was a door, leading out into the hallway, and another door was in the sidewall. High, dark wooden bookshelves and cabinets connected by light oak wall panels covered most of the original yellow-grey Corsham stone walls.

In the corner behind the desk, to the side of the mullioned window lay a large, curled up form, snoring and hissing very softly, upon a stack of soft rugs. Large maps of the British Isles and of Europe decorated the upper wall next to the window. Both looked realistic like a detailed satellite photo shot, but were obviously magical, because of glowing markers for magical buildings, areas, villages or mixed Muggle - Wizard settlements, like the Ministry of Magic, Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts, Ottery St. Catchpole, Godric's Hollow, Tinworth, Upper Flagley, also Dragon preserves or Werewolf clan or Giant territories.

Lord Voldemort looked up from the clutter of files, plans and notes on his heavy cherry wood desk when he heard someone knocking.

What now? He grumbled in his mind, frustrated that he didn't make any progress with his Arithmancy calculations. He had worked out several different plans to achieve his goals, plans that had appeared to be solid, reasonable and well structured. Nevertheless the probability of overall success was still so fickle, so random, so uncertain that it was inacceptable. It drove him up the wall!

One variable eluded him. One variable in the complex Arithmancy matrix had to be wrong from the start; something about the rune it represented, the properties, the effects, and the probable negation. He was making a grievous error somehow. He just couldn't figure out how to approach this problem from the right angle. From his decades of experience he supposed that the solution lurked right around the corner. It would be something glaringly obvious in hindsight, but he just couldn't grasp it - yet.

He raised his hands to briefly massage his temples, trying to ease the headache that pestered him this sweltering, stifling evening, despite the cooling charm on the room, before snarling, "Yes?"

"My Lord." Malfoy's silky drawl sounded somewhat strained through the heavy, dark brown wooden door. "I'm very sorry to disturb you sir, but most urgent business has come up."

Leaning back in his ornamentally carved, high-backed chair, his right hand flicking to cast the unlocking charm, Voldemort spoke curtly, "Come."

The opening door revealed two wizards in dark robes, Lucius Malfoy, with Garrick Avery hovering behind him. This in itself was nothing unexpected.

What had the Dark Lord blinking in surprise was the dishevelled state of Malfoy – the platinum blond aristocrat almost always looked impeccable, cool and collected, but now his grey eyes were blazing in agitation, fear and worry, his silky mane was in disarray, his face paler than normal, his breathing rushed as if he had run a mile, and what he held bridal style in his arms.

A limp, thin teenager, deathly pale, eyes closed, hidden behind ugly glasses, sweaty, dirty black hair covering part of his features, but Voldemort recognized him instantly.

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><p>Earlier on the same evening:<p>

Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England.

_The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing; the use of hosepipes had been banned due to drought._

Harry lay on his stomach in a hot, dusty flowerbed amongst dying begonias outside number four, concealed behind the hydrangea bush. He watched Mrs. Figg, a batty cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, mosey along the road.

He listened to the seven o'clock evening news through the open living room window, but it was nothing interesting. No sudden terror attack, no death and destruction, only holidaymakers stranded in Spain due to a strike and a frolicking bloody bird.

He raised himself on _to his knees and elbows, preparing to crawl out from under the window. He had moved about two inches when several things happened in very quick succession._

_A loud, echoing crack broke the sleepy silence like a gunshot; a cat streaked out from under a parked car and flew out of sight; a shriek, a bellowed oath and the sound of breaking china came from the Dursleys' living room, and as though this was the signal Harry had been waiting for he jumped to his feet, at the same time pulling from the waistband of his jeans a thin wooden wand as if he were unsheathing a sword - but before he could draw himself up to full height, the top of his head collided with the Dursleys' open window._

_The resultant crash made Aunt Petunia scream even louder._

_Harry felt as though his head had been split in two. Eyes streaming, he swayed, trying to focus on the street to spot the source of the noise, but he had barely staggered upright when two large purple hands reached through the open window and closed tightly around his throat._

_"Put - it-away!" Uncle Vernon snarled into Harry's ear. "Now! Before- anyone – sees!"_

_"Get - off - me!" Harry gasped. For a few seconds they struggled, Harry pulling at his uncle's sausage-like fingers with his left hand, his right maintaining a firm grip on his raised wand._

Vernon tightened his meaty fists and shook Harry like a disobedient puppy. "How dare you make such a racket right under our window? I told you, I will not tolerate any more of your abnormality. _Drop – that - thing!_ Now, you disgusting freak!"

Harry's face and neck turned purple, his eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth was wide open, but he couldn't speak or scream anymore due to lack of air. Fierce pain lanced through him, his chest felt as if would explode any second. He needed to breathe! His body convulsed. Dropping the wand, he frantically clawed with both hands upward, trying to pry his uncle's fingers loose before he succumbed to the blackness encroaching upon him.

Suddenly, a livid Petunia appeared at the window and grabbed her husband's arm. She hissed, "Vernon! The neighbours! You can't kill him! Let him go!"

Reluctantly Vernon obeyed the voice of reason, throwing his freak of a nephew away from the window.

Harry fell over the hydrangea bush, coughing and spluttering, wheezing for breath. His neck hurt something fierce, swallowing was agony. That had been close. This time Vernon had almost throttled him to unconsciousness, or almost killed him with the shaking. It was a wonder his neck hadn't snapped.

With tremendous effort Harry managed to rise to his hands and knees, heaving in lungful's of dusty air, that sent him into another coughing fit. Flight or fight, adrenalin was pumping through his emaciated, exhausted body like fire. His instincts screamed at him to flee, because he couldn't fight Vernon Dursley. If he used magic to defend himself, the fucking Ministry would know. He didn't want to risk another warning, or expulsion from Hogwarts.

But he needed his wand, just to know it was still there. His hands danced around on the hot, dried earth amidst the wilted flowers. Where was his wand?

"Wh-a-and, ne-e-ed hw-a-nd. Ach-ch-io wh-a-and!" he rasped, concentrating with all his might on his wand – and he felt it slapping into his palm. That was great, but he couldn't speak clearly, oh shit! Vernon's grip must have damaged something in his throat, in his larynx most likely. Bugger it!

Harry's vision was blurry, black spots danced around like a swarm of angry mosquitos, but he forced himself to crawl away alongside the flowerbed as fast as he could. He had to get away before Vernon had time to waddle out of the door or he would be manhandled into the house, where the neighbours couldn't watch the show any more. His shoulders, back and ribs still smarted from the last leathering.

Gulping in more air, Harry somehow managed to reach the corner of the house, where he shakily pulled himself to his feet. He couldn't see straight, there were still black spots in his field of sight, but he felt along the low garden wall as he stumbled forward until he reached the pavement. Move! He screamed at his legs, keep moving, down Privet Drive and on, I must get away, to the park. Vernon will not run after me when all the neighbours are watching, wouldn't be good for his image.

He heard some angry shouts from behind, but didn't head them as he trudged along the pavement on autopilot_. _No, Uncle Vernon, I will not come back right away, he growled in his mind. Consequences be damned.

After reaching the corner of the road, he looked back over his shoulder. That cracking noise, it had sounded like someone Apparating or Disapparating. Some wizard, or maybe a house elf, had been near him as he lay among Aunt Petunia's wilting flowers. Who was it? Why hadn't they secretly spoken to him? Why hadn't they brought him a real letter with information from Sirius, or his friends?

The big question was: Was that person a friend or a foe?

No, not an enemy, Harry mused. If that had been a Death Eater, one of Voldemort's men, who had found his house despite Dumbledore's protection and the no-post-for-security-rule, they would have attacked and kidnapped him as soon as he left the garden, stepping outside the wards surrounding the property. He wouldn't have noticed until it was too late; he was too busy keeping himself upright, gasping for breath and putting one foot in front of the other.

But if it wasn't an enemy, then why did that person not at least greet him? Or was it a coincidence? Was some random wizard travelling around, and they didn't know the famous Harry Potter was there at number four? Not bloody likely, why should any wizard or witch come to this Merlin forsaken Muggle suburb, if they didn't have business here involving the bloody Boy Who Lived?

How Harry hated his fame and this situation, being stuck at Privet Drive for his own good. Ha, if Dumbledore could see him now, ruddy fantastic this safety at his relatives, wasn't it? Harry snarled under his breath. He couldn't think straight anymore, it was just too much, too much anger, pain and riddles and not enough news and real information.

Harry eventually found his way along Magnolia Crescent, turning into Magnolia Road he headed towards the play park, which lay empty and desolate in the humid evening. He clambered carefully over the closed park gate and collapsed onto the only swing still usable, the others had been all vandalized by Dudley and his gang.

Another day gone by without news of the wizarding world, nothing worthwhile in the Daily Prophet or the Muggle news, let alone any information from his so called friends or absent godfather. It was maddening!

On top of that his uncle and aunt were in a nark, hell, no, they were spitting mad at him! They had already been in a nark when he returned for the summer about a month ago. The Dursleys loathed and hated him more than ever; because of that idiotic prank the Weasley twins played on Dudley the previous summer and how Mr Weasley had first destroyed and later fixed their living room with magic, all because those "freaks", the Weasleys, could not pick Harry up for that trip to the Quidditch World Cup like "decent, normal" people, with their car driving on the road and politely knocking on the front door!

The Dursleys hated - and feared - magic on principle, so in conclusion they hated Harry and had done their utmost to beat and starve the freakishness out of him. Last summer, he had thought the prank of the twins on Dudley to be very funny. Now he wished Mr Weasley had picked him up in a different way and without his sons. That had backfired so spectacularly, like a firework cracker blowing up right into his face. The Weasleys did not seem to have thought anything about what they had done or that Harry could possibly get into trouble for something completely out of his control.

During the rest of that summer and the following school year so much had happened, that Harry had completely forgotten the incident in the Dursleys' living room. After all, it was rather insignificant compared to fighting a dragon, dancing at the Yule ball, diving into the Black lake, navigating a dangerous maze or witnessing Lord Voldemort return and Cedric getting murdered just because he was in the way, wasn't needed for the ritual.

However, the Dursleys hadn't forgotten Dudley's ruined birthday outing to the zoo, or Harry's eleventh birthday and Dudley's pig tail, or the summer before second year with that ruined business dinner courtesy of Dobby, or the summer of the year previously, when he had blown up Aunt Marge and ran away. The catastrophe of the Weasleys' visit before his fourth year fuelled their hatred of him to new heights and they had waited for him to return, so that he could be adequately punished for the "unnatural, revolting freakishness" as they called it, that he had brought into their lives.

Now, tonight, Uncle Vernon was way beyond furious. He would never believe Harry that he didn't make that loud noise at all and that it was probably caused by some other magic user, which would only incense his temper more. Harry shuddered in fear of the punishment that was waiting for him, Gryffindor bravery and courage be damned.

Oh shit, oh fucking, buggering deep black hole shit, Harry cursed in his mind. He didn't know what he should do. He dearly wanted to run away, Dumblefu- ,  
>'Professor Dumbledore, Harry,' chided Hermione's voice in his head,<br>and his barmy notions of _Security_ be damned, but how should he manage that?

If he hailed the Knight Bus and travelled to The Burrow or the Leaky Cauldron, Dumbledore would know where he was in a jiffy and probably drag him back to Privet Drive for his own good, of course! Or send someone to do just that, like probably - Snape. A most wonderful prospect.

Harry scowled and punched the air. Oh no, that would not help him, at all. And, his money pouch, broom and Invisibility cloak were in the house, inside his trunk locked in the cupboard under the stairs. Vernon had made sure that all of his "freaky" things were locked up securely, right after arriving at the start of summer.

Maybe Vernon would cool down again in a few hours, go to sleep after Dudley had come home, so that Harry could sneak back into the house again, and pick the lock on the cupboard door to retrieve his most important things? And then, fly somehow to London or somewhere else under his cloak? But where could he hide safely and recover? How? He was in no condition for a journey like this; hurt, exhausted, weak from hunger and thirst. On top of that he couldn't speak properly, only croak like Trevor. Fuck.

His future looked darker than the inkiest black, more dreadful than Snape's robes, eyes and hair. Harry didn't want this life that was no real life anymore. Lost in the mire of hopelessness and pain, the young raven sat on the swing, staring into nothing as the crickets started their evening concert in the burned yellow grass of the darkening play park.

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><p>General AN:<p>

_To start this fic, I quoted some _original sentences _in _Italics_ from _Chapter 1 - Dudley Demented _of HP and the Order of the Phoenix by JK Rowling in the second part of this first chapter._

Setting / Time-line: AU as of the summer after Goblet of Fire = Chapter one of Order of the Phoenix = 5th HP book, beginning of August 1995 according to the fabulous online hp-lexicon . org. Minimal changes towards the end of GOF have happened, which shall be explained in due course...

Inspired by the great fan art of Flayu on Deviant Art, especially the picture titled "HP and LV." What happened to get Harry and Lord Voldemort to the moment and mood shown in this work of art and where do they go from here?

Genres: Drama, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Adventure, Mystery. If you squint, there is also Humour/Parody lurking around. Not much Romance, if any at all._  
><em>

Warnings (edited)_:_ This fic is rated 'M' to be on the safe side because of language, dark or adult themes, although I guess most of the story is more like 'T'.

Because some reviewers in 2011 asked about probable pairings:  
>No later HPGiW or HG/RW planned, or anything fluffy like 'Tom and Harry fall in love and live happily ever after'.  
>In due course there might be possible mentions of, or allusions to sexual relations of various characters of all kind, Het, Slash, Bi, Bestiality, Underage, Dominancesubmission, certainly manipulation / power plays; whatever ;-) we shall see.

Very slow-paced story and planed as a novel length WIP, covering years. I cannot promise you regular monthly updates due to other commitments and real life trouble. Sorry, you have to be really patient.

If this is not your cup of tea, then please leave and read something else. Otherwise, welcome on the Dark side and enjoy!

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><p><em>AN concerning <em>_Avery:_ In canon, there are two men with this surname; both are Death Eaters, probably father and son or uncle and nephew. I gave the younger Avery, of the same age as Snape (= Marauder Era, they went to Hogwarts together), the name Garrick. It could mean spear-ruler, a strong name for a warrior or from Old French: A place covered by oaks. I felt Garrick fit well with Avery, a surname which also has roots in Old or Middle English and Old French, like Alfred, _aelf_, meaning elf, and _raed_, meaning counsel, like in modern German _Rat, _a city council, or _Rat_ = good advice. I really didn't know the information about Olivander from Pottermore when I wrote this first chapter in 2011, so it's pure coincidence that Mr Olivander's first name is also Garrick!


	2. Chapter 2

The Dark Lord's study, first floor, guest wing, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire.

.

..

...

Harry. Potter.

Harry Potter?

HARRY POTTER!

Thrilled, the Dark Lord jumped up from his chair, headache forgotten, in the same moment as Lucius stepped inside the room and lowered himself in a bow to the floor.

The blond declared, "My Lord, the Potter boy," while gently placing the lifeless body on the beautiful dark blue and red Ancient Persian rug in front of the desk.

Gently? Why didn't he just drop the whelp? Is Potter dead, or unconscious? What in Salazar's name happened? How did they find and capture him? Questions shot through the Dark Lord's mind like a swarm of disturbed wasps.

Voldemort quickly strode around his desk and took in the strange tableau before him.

Lucius knelt on the rug next to the boy's head, brushing back the long, dark unruly fringe. The angry, red lightning bolt shaped scar was clearly visible above his right eyebrow; this was Harry Potter, no doubt.

Garrick had knelt sideways and behind Lucius; the younger dark blond man also looked agitated and dishevelled. Both men were breathing heavily and trembling slightly, out of exertion, distress or fear it was hard to tell. Voldemort could smell cold sweat, the smell of fear, dirt and a faint trace of blood. They were waiting for him to address them, and kept their eyes downcast, on Potter.

A Potter who looked nothing like the proud, defiant Gryffindor, the Hogwarts champion at the graveyard five weeks ago. More like an old, battered rag doll someone had thrown into the rubbish; or a filthy, famished, homeless Muggle tramp.

Incredulous, Voldemort moved closer and crouched down himself, studying the boy, disregarding his servants and the slowly uncoiling snake in the corner behind him for the moment. Potter appeared dead, but then he noticed movement of the chest and a wheezing, rasping sound, so he was still breathing, but injured.

Didn't Potter spend his summer coddled at his loving Muggle relatives according to Severus? Why does he look as if he was starved? He was always on the scrawny side, and smaller than the other boys in his year, but he didn't look so skinny back in June, recalled Voldemort. In the graveyard, Potter had been bleeding, agitated, shocked, yes, but not as harassed like this.

The young wizard was clad in disgusting, too large, filthy Muggle clothes. A faded, washed out baggy tee shirt and ripped, equally faded blue jeans, with dirty knees, like dark earth from a flower bed. On his feet dirty, worn trainers, the sole peeling off. Why does he look like a tramp, a runaway or a street boy from a wrecked Muggle country? wondered the Dark Lord.

He remembered seeing homeless street children and war refugees on his travels through the civil war torn, impoverished Balkan Muggle countries. But - Potter is supposed to be wealthy; he can buy decent clothes, regardless if wizard or Muggle style. Why would he run around like this?

The visible skin on Potter's face, arms and hands was very pale, sickly pale, underneath a shimmer of a sunny tan, so he must have been outside often during the past weeks. The skin round his eyes and below – dark, baggy, too many wrinkles for such a young face, screamed a lack of sleep and an abundance of pain.

Pain? How come this boy looks as if he was tortured daily and kept awake by force like a prisoner?

One eye must have been punched, sporting a shiner. The nose was a bit crooked and discoloured; someone had hit him right in the face some weeks back. On his left cheek and jaw was an older, faded greenish-yellow bruise, above that a fresh reddish-blue spot on his temple. His neck sported angry red and violet spots; very typical finger shaped bruises, as if someone with large hands had very recently strangled him nearly to death. Around Potter's right arm, right above his wrist and around the biceps the same, older and newer finger shaped bruises in various stages of healing, blue, and brown to greenish-yellow.

Voldemort reached for Potter's right hand to examine it. The moment their skin touched, the hand flinched; he felt a faint shock, like a spark, followed by the sensation of magical power. The boy was thrumming with contained power under his skin, despite looking a shell of his former self. Remarkable.

He shook the odd feeling off and turned the hand back and forth. No bloody knuckles. Palms and fingers calloused, dirty and dirt under the short fingernails. Two fingers on the hand didn't look and feel right, stiff, slightly swollen. The pinkie – it must have been pulled or bent backwards enough to snap, but had already started to heal. He recognized this kind of injury, if one didn't want to cause real damage to the victim yet, just some local intense pain.

He grabbed Potter's shoulder and moved him a bit, so that he could check the left hand. The same evidence here, ring finger and pinkie had been overstretched or deliberately broken. The back of the hand – no bloody knuckles again, he hadn't fought back, but right across was an older bruise, lengthwise; with a corresponding lengthwise bruise on the inside of the calloused and dirty palm. Which was typical if the hand had been squashed between something, like – in a door. Or underneath something long and hard.

He let his fingers probe Potter's left hand, then the bruised wrist. The hand and wrist must have been squashed or smashed, the scarring showed him that the tendons were partly torn, the fine bones cracked or broken – it was hard to tell, must have hurt fiercely. This accident or attack had been some weeks prior, if this had healed on its own without medical attention or spells. If Potter had visited a healer at St. Mungos, everything would be all right, nothing to detect of these injuries.

The boy stirred, moaning weakly. He dropped the hand, Potter sighed, seemed to fall asleep again.

Voldemort was incredibly confused, something he loathed on a fundamental level. He couldn't afford to be confused, to not have control over a situation or himself. At first glance he had assumed that Potter had resisted capture, fought with Avery and Malfoy, but then the teen should be angry and awake, sporting only fresh cuts and bruises, or maybe quiver in aftershocks from the Cruciatus curse, not knocked out cold with this odd mixture of fading and newer injuries. Someone must have repeatedly physically attacked the boy; the marks on his skin told a story of struggling against someone stronger grabbing and beating him in the past weeks.

His gaze wandered over the body upwards to Potter's hair. The unruly black mop was so sweaty and dirty, like the clothes and hands too. The boy looked as if he had worked in a garden or had been rolling around in flower beds. Voldemort wrinkled his nose and sniffed, yes, the boy smelt dirty, sweaty, the fresh cold, sour sweat of fear, beneath that sweat from repeated physical exertion during a longer time and the sour smell of an unwashed body, again reminding him of tramps, war refugees or prisoners.

Did he run away from his home and live on the streets? Did he take drugs? Did he fight with Muggle gangs? Nonsense, not Potter, Dumbledore's Golden Boy! Why should he leave his comfortable home? Voldemort couldn't make head or tail of the visible evidence, so he shoved it away into a corner of his mind.

Suddenly, a movement to his left distracted him, but it was only Nagini who had slithered around the desk to see what had disturbed her master so. She probed the air with her tongue, flicking rapidly out of her mouth.

{Massster, what hasss you troubled?} Nagini asked. {Thisss ssssmall sssskinny two legsss, isss that the Potter boy? He's sssick, hurt and ssso sssmall, jussst an Appetizzzer. You told me he would be my dinner one day, but he is only a meagre rabbit or raven's chick and won't tassste good at all like thisss! Who dared to chassse the meat of hissss bonesss?}

{Yess, thiss isss Potter. I don't know what happened to him, yet,} replied Voldemort to his curious familiar, amused that she complained that her dinner had been spoiled.

Did Potter run away from my servants? Voldemort imagined the scenario. Malfoy and Avery chasing the boy through a garden, orchard or fields, Potter falling, crashing into something, scrambling on hands and knees through dirt trying to escape…That could be, they both were breathing so fast when they came in the study, as if they had run. However, why do _they_ smell so strongly of fear too? Are they so afraid of me? Do they have something to hide? Did they mess something up?

He breathed in again deliberately, through nose and mouth, scanning the odours in the room. And there it was again, a whiff of copper tang amidst the aroma of dirt, sweat and fear, plus the faint fragrance of Lucius' cologne, musk, lemon grass, sandalwood.

Lucius' left hand was again slowly carding through Potter's raven tresses, as if in a trance. The boy frowned suddenly, moving his head a bit and moaned, then pressed into the gloved hand caressing him and stilled again.

What is this? Lucius Malfoy touching Potter as if the boy was his sick pet or child, soothing him? Is he insane?

Voldemort quickly grabbed Lucius' hand who looked up startled, but didn't resist. He turned the hand palm upward, yes, there was some blood on Malfoy's black leather glove.

Where does that blood come from? Did he injure Potter with a cutting hex or dagger? But where is the wound?

Rising swiftly, he abruptly grabbed Lucius collar, pulling the fair-haired wizard to his feet.

"Explain!" Voldemort hissed dangerously. "What happened? Where and how did you capture him? Why is Potter in this condition? Did you curse him with Attero and beat him up, you fool? One Stupefy should have been enough! Look at me!"

Lucius gulped for air, then visibly composed himself and locked eyes with his lord, dropping his Occlumency barriers to allow him unlimited access to his memories.

Voldemort used Legilimency to barge into his mind and was confronted with a swirl of emotions and dark, hectic memories, showing him surprise, eagerness, the nauseating whirl of Side-along Apparition, and anticipation. Then empty, dimly lit roads in a Muggle town, along which Lucius was stealthy following a shadowy figure. Suddenly everything went completely dark and cold. Confusion, overwhelming fear and dread, accompanied by shouting and panicked screams. That didn't make much sense. He withdrew again and studied Malfoys face impatiently, hissing, "Report!"

Lucius suppressed a wince; collecting his scattered wits he set out to formulate a response in the best way to avoid punishment, fearing his master's temper.

Since his resurrection Lord Voldemort was quite unstable, switching from discussing politics and plans passionately, but reasonable to sudden fury and back again to polite calmness in an instant. He was not the easiest house-guest in that respect, but otherwise didn't impose on Lucius' resources in an unreasonable way.

Lucius hoped that this was an effect of the new body and that his master would settle down in time, regaining his equilibrium and putting his brilliant mind to work for their cause in the same way his outer features improved slowly. Already his face and hands had changed; he still looked very much snake like, but a short crop of dark hair streaked with some grey was growing on the crown of his head, and thin, dark eyebrows began to emerge above the bridge of a nose. The pale fingers were still abnormally thin and long, spider like, but the terrible claw like nails had receded to more normal looking, more human finger nails, albeit still stronger and sharper compared to Lucius' own, well-manicured hands.

"My Lord, I did not curse him," he emphasized. "We did not injure Potter at all, we found him like this. What happened this evening is extraordinary, most unbelievable. I suggest we use my Pensieve, and extract Avery's and later Potter's memories in addition to mine, so you can better determine the sequence of events and the possible cause and ramifications. I don't understand this myself, although I witnessed what happened."

He waited a moment for Voldemort to nod, while he did his utmost to ignore the dangerous snake so close to him before stating, "Avery informed me about half an hour ago that he had discovered the location of Potter's home. He urgently required backup, because the Order guard was absent for unknown reasons and Potter was outside the wards, alone. It seemed the perfect opportunity for us to capture the boy. We searched for Potter and found him, but at the same time Potter was attacked. We intervened. Potter did not resist or fight us, on the contrary, he asked me to take him away."

Voldemort blinked and frowned, the only visible sign of his puzzlement. He moved his burning crimson gaze from Lucius down to Potter, who lay still, but breathing more deeply, to Nagini, who had raised her head, hovering over his body and _tasting_ the boy's skin to Garrick, who was still kneeling in the same position beside the door, shooting wary glances alternately at the huge snake and at him.

"Garrick? Did Potter truly recognize Lucius and he did not fight you or call for help? And just who attacked him?"

"Yes, my Lord, it´s true," answered the dark blond, looking up. "We, ahem, we rescued Potter from Dementors and the Muggles. He came along willingly. Well, he could hardly speak, but he made it clear he wanted to leave that place urgently before he collapsed. There was no one from the Order to guard or to help Potter."

Voldemort's scant eyebrows shot up. "Dementors?! Muggles? And Potter turned to _you_ for help?"

"Yes, master." "Positive, my Lord." Garrick and Lucius nodded and spoke at the same time, which would have been comical under different circumstances.

"There were two Dementors; they attacked Potter and his Muggle cousin in an alleyway near his Muggle home," Malfoy elaborated.

"We have no idea as to the instigator; we didn't encounter or discover any other wizards there," Avery added.

"You did not send them, my Lord, did you?" Malfoy asked apprehensively.

"No, of course not!" snapped Voldemort.

After a curt gesture from his master to rise, Avery scrambled to his feet, looking from Voldemort down to Potter and Nagini, who was now – _licking_ the boy's neck, causing the body to shudder involuntarily.

"We were lucky my Lord. If we'd hesitated or arrived only a minute later, Potter would've been as good as dead. One Dementor had grabbed him around the neck and was about to kiss him. It was most awful," recounted Avery.

All the wizards looked for a moment to Potter. Lucius and Garrick shuddered in remembrance of the fear they had felt in the presence of the Dementors, and because of what the snake did. She did kiss Potter in a way.

Lucius imagined how that must feel to wake up to that sensation, horrible, but well, not as horrible as a Dementor's kiss. Potter must be unconscious again, or he had exceptional self-control to keep pretending he slept on in this situation.

"Well," Avery blathered on nervously, when Voldemort didn't say anything, apart from raising a very questioning eyebrow and staring down upon him. "I mean it would've been most unfortunate if Potter suffered such a fate, before we could bring him to you to kill him, or not, master?"

"Most unfortunate, indeed," commented Voldemort.

"But – the way the child is now; there is no honour in such a deed. He is a wreck. Potter is not what we thought he was. He was so desperate to flee that he turned to us, to Death Eaters. We've been told lies; it is not true that Potter lives with loving, happy relatives, on the contrary. It's outrageous how that Muggle scum mishandles him. Potter is a wizard child, after all!" Avery exclaimed agitated, shaking his head. "I cannot fathom why Dumbledore allows this. Or he doesn't know, but then Potter's guard must be deaf and blind. Come to think of it, they are, they did not notice me watching them or following the boy."

"Shut up!" hissed Voldemort, irritated. Nagini moved her head and upper body back, coiling up behind Potter and hissing viciously in counterpoint.

"Please forgive my audacity, my Lord." Avery quaked in terror, throwing himself on the polished hardwood floor in supplication.

Voldemort was hard pressed not to gape at this display of impertinent babbling and compassion for an enemy by Avery, despite the attempted cover up.

No honour in killing Potter? Precious Potter abused? With Dumbledore's consent? Absurd! Avery must be confounded or hallucinating.

His anger surged, he trained his wand on the man to curse some sense back into him. "_Crucio!_"

Avery screamed and flapped about, wrecked by the torture curse.

Suddenly, the boy on the floor moved and moaned, rising his hands up to claw against his forehead, his face scrunched up in pain. It looked like he suffered from a severe headache. Voldemort remembered how the boy had screamed in agony when he came closer and touched him in the graveyard. His mere presence seemed to hurt Potter. He stopped the curse on his servant and pointed his wand at the boy; he could kill him now and end this – this farce, this situation, well whatever it was.

He commanded, {Nagini, ssshoo, move back sssome more.}

"My Lord, no! Don't! Please wait, please listen to me!" Lucius interrupted urgently, reaching out as if to stall his master's hand, but not daring to actually touch him.

* * *

><p>AN: Attero: a Dark Arts Curse I made up, from Latin to destroy, waste, weaken, impair, according to latinwordlist dot com. This curse will cause a person to rapidly lose weight as if suffering from thirst, hunger, cold, sleeplessness and injuries, like some poor abuse or war victim or a mistreated prisoner. This is a possible, a reasonable explanation for the sorry state of the boy in Voldemort's mind. Because why else should Potter look like he does?


	3. Chapter 3

Lucius pleads with me to save Potter? Why? Voldemort thought suspiciously, but stilled his movement. Pointing the glowing tip of his yew wand to the floor, he deliberately reined his turbulent magic back in; he didn't want to curse or kill his familiar inadvertently, after all.

Speaking of the snake, why was she still there besides Potter?

{Nagini, I sssssaid move away from that boy!} hissed Voldemort.

Nagini didn't heed the command, all the while hissing and spitting unintelligibly, very agitated, and – was everybody confounded tonight? His familiar now looped and spiralled around the boy, and took on a protective and threatening stance on top of the limp body, facing him, her master, with bared fangs!

Cracked. Crazy. Mad.

Voldemort could not understand her rapid, hissed nattering; he did not have the time or the patience now, so he wrenched his attention away from the irrational animal. He would deal with her later; instead he fixed Lucius with his intimidating ruby stare. The man should cover on the ground in fear, but he didn't, he stood tall and proud, the lord of the manor, determined yet not aggressive.

"How dare you?" growled Voldemort in a low, dangerous tone.

"With all due respect my Lord, you are possibly endangering yourself and throwing away a great opportunity if you try to kill Potter now," spoke Malfoy, calm and collected as ever, the unemotional voice of reason. "I advise restraint in dealing with Potter. Please hear me out, master."

Voldemort squashed his first impulse to curse or kill the blond and took a moment to contemplate his servants' weird behaviour.

What is wrong tonight with Avery and Malfoy? Instead of gloating about their success, Lucius asks me to spare the boy? Is he under Confundus or Imperius? No, I'd have noticed that while scanning his mind. Why is he acting this way then, protecting the boy, risking my wrath? But – Lucius is normally so level-headed, cunning; he senses good opportunities or blackmail material on people like a fox. He must have a very good reason to argue with me like he does.

"Go on then Lucius, I am listening," invited Voldemort, twirling his wand between his fingers, while he took two steps back and leaned against the desk, deliberately reducing the tension between them.

Nagini's hissing fit calmed down instantly, but she didn't budge from her place. Her large, sinewy body coiled like an animated nest around the Potter boy, the dark and lighter coloured scales reflecting the light of the hovering candles in the room. The boy had himself curled up on his side in a small package, arms and legs tightly against his body in a feeble attempt at protecting himself. His head was ducked down, he must be sleeping or in a half-awake state, but he didn't show any other reaction.

Lucius released a breath, relaxing his shoulders and taking a step back in a mirroring move to his master, before inhaling again and launching into his chain of arguments. "Please proceed with caution; do not act hasty, my Lord."

"Firstly, there is the matter of that prophesy. Secondly, there is indubitably some very powerful magical connection between the two of you. In the graveyard your wands connected, Potter appeared to summon that glowing magical sphere and those spirits and escaped against all odds," he reminded, gesturing down to the boy. "We, you do not know what might happen if you try to kill him tonight. It might work, or it might destroy your body again, like in 1981," Lucius warned keenly.

Voldemort's wand hand twitched, a few red and green sparks shot out of the wand, sizzling on the rug. His face darkened in anger at the mention of the graveyard, how this mere child had bested and humiliated him, again, and the critique at his actions incensed him.

"Please, there is no Lily Potter here to throw herself in front of the boy!" Voldemort snapped back angrily, before staring incomprehensibly down at his familiar.

Nagini _was_ acting the part of protective mother dragon, all right! Why? Could Potter confound people by his mere presence? Or did she want the boy for herself? Was she acting so possessively, as if she was defending her prey against other predators, because she suddenly wanted to eat him alive? How should he know? Stupid snake!

Lucius continued to speak logical and unfazed, although inwardly he quaked in terror, because he never before dared to speak over his master like this. Defiance was a sure way to get cursed. But he felt that he _had_ at least to try. The prospect of the Dark Lord's Avada Kedavra aimed at Potter probably blowing up half of Malfoy Manor in the backlash, the same as the Potter's cottage in 1981, was daunting. Not to speak of an angry spirit Lord Voldemort haunting him and his family, if something went wrong!

"Sir, it may be some ancient magic that Lily Potter used," Lucius said, "that now is harmless, because you now can touch the boy, like you told us at your resurrection. But what if there is more behind his mother's protection than you can fathom with the current information? Don't risk your life and the Dark's cause again needlessly."

"We need you as our leader, my Lord," Lucius cajoled. "It would be terrible for our cause if your body was destroyed again. I do not have the knowledge to help you. Even if Pettigrew now knows what to do, how to prepare this rebirth ritual, it would take a while until you could return, would it not? Look, Potter is hurt and in shock, he is in no condition to fight you. This broken boy is no threat to anyone. You have time, master."

Voldemort shifted his gaze from Lucius to Potter and Nagini. He was loath to admit it, but Malfoy's arguments made some sense, so he took his anger and shoved it down, bringing order again in his agitated mind. He aborted the half cast Cruciatus curse before the red beam hit somebody.

"Because he is so weak, it should be easy to kill him now," argued Voldemort for effect, although he knew already what his right-hand man would answer.

"Yes, but as a toddler Potter was still weaker, and what happened?"

Lucius drew in a shocked breath; that thought was supposed to stay inside his head! I should have verbalized it a bit more diplomatic, he scolded himself. Now master will fly of the handle, again, this will hurt…

Voldemort growled under his breath and glared at the blond wizard, but nodded reluctantly, after pondering Malfoy's arguments. Sadly, it was true: He _had_ acted rashly on that Samhain night in 1981, and paid dearly. What if he cast the Killing curse on the boy tonight and it rebounded again? Very improbable, nevertheless not impossible; this was _Harry Potter_ after all, his prophesied _Vanquisher_.

Malfoy was right, in the graveyard he had Potter completely at his mercy. Yet the boy had somehow connected their wands, summoned those murdered spirits in the chronological order of their demises and escaped Lord Voldemort and the greater part of his inner circle! During the past years and especially the Triwizard Tournament, the boy had proven to be capable of magic way above his years according to all the reports he, Lord Voldemort, had received or what he had observed himself.

When no curse hit him, Lucius sighed inwardly and dared to offer his advice. "However, Potter's presence here is a great opportunity for us to access valuable information. Let us study the boy and try to understand what happened. It can only work in your favour, my Lord, to wait and gather more information before you act. And last but not least; consider that Avery and I saved Potter's life tonight."

"Did you truly save his life?" inquired Voldemort. "Without any doubt?"

"Yes, my Lord, we did. If Avery had not discovered Potter's whereabouts and convinced me to come along at once, we would have been too late. If I had not claimed Potter in your name, my Lord, and commanded the Dementor to let the boy go, Potter would have been a soulless shell almost immediately. Avery was, ahem, well he had some trouble focussing, and he doesn't know the Lingua Mortuus. I don't think he could've cast a Patronus either."

"Hm, I heard for example from Pettigrew that Potter was able to cast a corporal Patronus at Hogwarts. Didn't he try?" said Voldemort.

"Well yes, he did try, but in vain." Lucius clarified. "Potter tried to cast twice before I intervened, but his Patronus failed. One Dementor had grabbed him around the neck, sucking on him. Potter was struggling helpless in the air, being choked; he could not correctly voice the incantation. Well, his throat was already damaged before this attack; we heard that he couldn't speak properly. There is no way Potter could have fought off those two Dementors on his own. In my understanding, the Dementor's kiss is worse than death, so in conclusion Potter owns both of us a life debt. Maybe we can use that to our favour, my Lord?"

Voldemort listened intrigued; he was so looking forward to observing Lucius' memories of what happened this evening in the Pensieve! After a minute of contemplation, he spoke, "Very well, Lucius, your arguments have merit. I shall think about this."

He turned his gaze to his familiar. The large snake was still around and above the boy, hissing intermittently. It sounded like, {Mine, fine sssnakeling, shhhh, tasssste good, mine, massster's sssnakeling is fine.}

What did she mean?

She acted so bizarre tonight, but seemed a bit calmer now, so he stepped closer to crouch down beside them and addressed her in Parseltongue.

{Nagini, what isss wrong?} he asked. {Why are you curled around Potter thisss way? You can eat him alive when the time comesss, if you want to. I shall not take him away. Ssspeak slowly, I could not undersstand you earlier.}

{Massster, massster, no, not dinner!} spoke the agitated snake. {Thisss sskinny ssmall two legsss tastes like massster. He feelsss like masster's sssnakeling or like masstersss'mate!}

What?! The Dark Lord didn't believe his ears.

* * *

><p>AN. Malfoy mentioned that he used the "Lingua Mortuus", whereas Avery does not speak this tongue. In my AUs this is a special "dark" Necromancer language that some dark wizards study, to better communicate with certain dark beings, like a Dementor, or with the animated dead, like an Inferius. In canon books and films Dementors are obviously able to understand at least simple commands (apparently in English?) because we read that Dementors guard Azkaban (POA, GOF, OOTP, HBP) and Minister Fudge either summons a Dementor, or he is accompanied by one when Fudge comes to Hogwarts at the end of POA and GOF. In OOTP, Umbridge somehow sent those two Dementors to Little Whinging with explicit orders to search out and to attack Harry Potter. In DH, Umbridge also uses Dementors to keep the accused Muggle-borns subdued. In OOTP and HBP it is mentioned that the Dementors obeyed Lord Voldemort during the first war. So I thought it plausible that Voldemort (and perhaps a few of his people?) can communicate with these horrific beings on a more complex or intense level, not just voicing commands. I believe I read a similar idea in a story many years ago, but I cannot remember where.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

_What? The Dark Lord didn't believe his ears._

{Are you sssure, my sweet?} he asked.

{Yesss, I am sssure! Can't you tassste his essence? Can't you sssmell him with your nose, massster? The ssskinny two legsssy feels and tastesss ssso very similar, almost like you, massster,} the snake explained.

{I don't want him as dinner anymore, he is only bonesss and ssskin anyway, not tasty and juicy. Because sssnakeling is maybe a good mate for massster? Or isss thisss your kin, your sssnakeling, and massster only forgot that while massster wasss weak sssuch a long time?}

Voldemort was stumped. What did Nagini mean? What was his familiar talking about? Sometimes Parseltongue was so difficult, the mental concepts of a reptile being different from human ideas and views. Nagini was a special snake, with a part of himself residing inside her. He could talk with her and control her, even see through her eyes sometimes, much better than with any other snake, but today that didn't help matters at all.

{No, I cannot sssmell that what you sssay,} he said. {I sssmell Potter's sssweat, the dirt and blood. I sssmell, I sssense that he is hurt and afraid. However, he isss not my kin, not my brother, nephew or my ssson, if you mean that? I have no kin.}

{But master, he tassstes and feelsss so sssimilar, very much like you!} Nagini repeated stubbornly. {Only difference isss, he ssstinks of fear, blood, injuriesss and sssweat, and you are powerful, clean and dry,} she explained.

{Oh! Perhapsss becaussse we ssshare blood? I took a sssmal amount of hisss blood to create thisss body.}

{I don't know why, massster,} the snake answered. {Massster, I like to be near him,} Nagini added. {Sssnakeling feelsss good. Comforting. You know, a little bit like a sssun warmed rock, even if he isss ssso weak, hungry, thirssty, afraid and hurt ass he isss. Mussst heal and feed him, then he will feel better. I want him near me.}

Voldemort blinked, what did Nagini mean now? How could she like Potter's presence? He shrugged mentally.

{But why didn't you noticsse any of thisss at my rebirth, in that graveyard?}

{I do not know massster, maybe becaussse I wasss not so clossse to him like now? I did not touch or tassste him then like today,} Nagini replied.

{Hm. Never mind, I do not underssstand how you can sssense thisss, but it doesssn't matter, only that you do. Well, thank you, my dear. Ssso you think this ssstarved sssnakeling isss not dinner? Potter can ssserve usss better alive?}

{Yesss, massster. But you must firssst heal him and feed him. He cannot ssserve you like thisss.}

Voldemort stood up again, turned and walked to the window. He opened both sections and leaned on the windowsill, staring into the warm, black night, stars sparkling above, deep in thought, ignoring everybody else.

He didn't understand yet what his snake was on about, but it must be either the shared blood from the resurrection ritual, or that mysterious magical connection Lucius had reminded him of. He hated that reminder. It had been such a humiliation when Potter escaped from the graveyard, and afterwards he had let his rage out on his servants.

But Harry Potter was most certainly not his kin or his son, like Nagini believed. The boy looked similar to James Potter and he would remember if he had raped Lily Potter in the autumn of 1979; that had _definitely_ never happened. That temperamental young witch with her blazing dark red hair and vibrant green eyes had been an eye catcher. No wonder Severus had wanted her, Mudblood or not.

Come to think of it, Potter was born 31st July 1980, so he must have been conceived around the 31st of October of the previous year, Samhain 1979. Halloween.

The Dark Lord felt an icy finger of Fate travel down his spine. A few months later he had heard of the Prophesy. Exactly two years after Potter's conception, on Samhain 1981, he had tried to kill the Child of Prophesy and nearly perished himself, while Potter had lived due to Lily Potter's life sacrifice. A willing life sacrifice on Samhain!

Lily Evans Potter had dabbled in Dark Magic, he was suddenly absolutely sure. Sure, 'Love' was said to be a powerful emotion, but never before had something happened like with the Potters. How many mothers had thrown themselves in front of their children, how many husbands in front of their wives or daughters, trying to shield them from an attack in vain? Lily must have prepared a protection ritual for her son beforehand, sealed with her death. No wonder her protection was so strong.

But how? How could Potter's mother have known this? Had she been clairvoyant? A Mudblood, a Light witch, an Order of the Phoenix member, how could she have been farsighted, or studied Dark Arts rituals without anybody of Dumbledore's bigoted fools noticing a thing? What an Enigma.

And why hadn't he seen this powerful symbolism before?

The circle of the year, of nature; winter, spring, summer, autumn; of life and death, warmth and coldness ended and began anew on Samhain. The end of the old year, the start of the new year. The end of the lighter half of the year and beginning of the darker half.

The day of festivities and bonfires in thanking for the good harvest, which would tide the people over the cold winter, keep them alive in the coming darkness. And the day to remember the deceased, the ancestors, when the veil between the worlds of the dead and the living was so thin.

A day of life and death, just like his wand symbolised life and death. Lord Voldemort's wand was rare and special, crafted out of the wood of the yew tree combined with a Phoenix feather inside, a symbiosis of ancient symbol's for life and death, rebirth and immortality. He had performed darkest magic with this wand, killing countless people and creating his Horcruxes to thwart death, to become immortal.

And Death had stretched out his heavy hand for him on that day, on Samhain 1981, because he dared to take a life conceived on a previous Samhain in his quest to be immortal, forever unvanquished. But he, the great Lord Voldemort, had escaped, he had survived, and the boy had survived too, because Potter's mother, who gave him this life, had died in his stead.

Ancient, powerful magic indeed. So there was truly something behind all the 'Boy Who Lived' hype. If that wasn't a powerful magical connection, he was a Bowtruckle!

Voldemort shook off the shadow of the past and glanced over his shoulder at the huddled form of boy on the floor inside the protection of Nagini's long, powerful body. The serpent was now curled up in a double ring, her head closing the circle around the boy. She could kill Potter with her venom swiftly, but she did the opposite. Nagini protected him, gave him a chance at living!

A circle again, of life and death, so close intertwined. Voldemort gasped quietly in sudden epiphany. The symbol's meaning sprang into his mind. The Ouroboros, the tail devourer. The image of celestial perfection, self-contained and perpetual, the regenerative cycle. The circle of the year, of nature, of life from death and death from life. The Chinese Ying and Yang, black and white. An unending circle. Immortality. Birth. Death. Rebirth, life continuing endlessly through death.

This could be it! He might have misjudged the runic variable of 'Potter' in this life seize chess game between him and Dumbledore. He would have to think about this later, draw up another Arithmancy calculation and try to understand what eluded him so far.

Anticipation twisted his lips into a sinister smirk. It would be interesting to question Potter, to experiment with the young wizard. If Potter didn't prove useful, he could always torture the boy later and try various methods to bring him near death, except the Killing Curse. Malfoy was right, better to be safe than sorry. The boy might look weak, broken, but he still had strong magic.

How he wished to know the rest of that dratted prophesy! It would help him to choose his course for the future and what to do, or not to do, with Potter. There was something ominous, something mysterious going on between them, not just a random fluke of weird coincidence. This mere child continued to thwart his plans again and again, for no apparent, logical reason. Nevertheless, there just had to be a reason!

In any case, his servants had performed well tonight. Finally he had Potter at his mercy, something he had anticipated, but not expected so soon. The circumstances were most strange, indeed.

Briskly turning around he took a seat at his desk again. Lucius and Avery had waited perfectly still while he was conversing with Nagini and staring out of the window afterwards, their fear and unease tangible in the air and their magical auras.

"Lucius, Garrick."

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Master?"

"Very well, I forgive your brazenness, as you both acted in my best interest. Thank you, Avery, for discovering Potter's whereabouts and calling on Lucius like you did. Thank you, Lucius, for saving Potter twice tonight, despite risking my anger with your actions. Both of you proved your loyalty and served me well."

"Thank you master," gushed Avery relieved, bowing low.

Lucius was elated by his master's newest mood change; this was much better than expected.

"I'm glad to serve, my Lord," Lucius said obsequiously and bowed curtly, before he pointed out, "Moreover, consider how the boy turned to me for help. As Avery said, he must have been absolutely desperate to escape from Surrey, not just from the Dementors."

"Hm, yes, that's unexpected and most peculiar. Why would Potter want to leave the protective wards?" Voldemort queried.

"I'm not sure, yet," replied Lucius, "but if what Avery suspects is true, he wasn't safe at his relations at all. I didn't want to believe his claim of abuse by those Muggles at first, it sounds so far-fetched. Why would his relatives mistreat the precious Boy Who Lived? But we can all see that this boy is weak, starved and hurt. Someone must be responsible for his sorry state. I'm sure Potter will cooperate once he can think lucidly and speak clearly again. Then we might discover something that fundamentally changes the stakes in the war."

Voldemort looked dubious. "Hm, maybe."

Lucius stared down at the boy and the snake, and then raised his gaze again. With an excited gleam in his stormy grey eyes he added, "Perhaps if Potter starts to trust us, he can be persuaded to see things from our point of view. He may be of great use to you. Just imagine my Lord, if he could be turned. The perfect spy."

"That would be fortunate," agreed Voldemort. "Very well, assess Potter's condition, heal him enough for interrogation."

Malfoy looked very relieved. "Thank you my Lord, I shall do my best."

* * *

><p>AN: Hello again dear readers,<p>

I'm amazed by and truly grateful for your enthusiastic response. My email inbox is going crazy with all these reviews, alerts and favs! I'm sorry I don't have the time to answer each of you individually, but I promise to read all reviews. Thank you so, so much!

Because m-f42 asked if this story will contain slash: Yes, there will be (more or less brief) mentions of various relationships and interactions of many characters in the course of this story, like I stated in the warnings of chapter one, but do not expect any "action" for a long while. This is just the start of a fanfic about adult people, mostly the Dark Lord and other Dark wizards, (and some Light wizards, naturally) involved in survival, in the power struggles and politics of a civil war between two fractions of the wizarding world, and some teenagers caught up in this mess, so of course there will be mentions of their actions or relationships of the past, present and future. But this is not primary a Romance fiction, all right? And certainly nothing like 'Tom and Harry fall in love and live happily ever after'. And no men-preg or something like that. If you want to read such, please look elsewhere, OK?


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer, Warnings, please see chapter 1.

AN: In this chapter, we will first witness what happened earlier on this evening from the POV of Arabella Figg, in the second half of the chapter we are back at Malfoy Manor, POV Harry Potter, and at the end of the chapter we get a glimpse of Sirius Black, Hermione Granger, the Weasleys and Remus Lupin, who are currently all living at Order Headquarters in London, just like in the 5th book OOTP.

* * *

><p><span>Wisteria Walk, Little Whinging, Surrey, England.<span>

Arabella Figg left the friendly, small corner shop at the end of Wisteria Walk after buying three tins of cat food. She had ventured there to have a viable reason for her nosy neighbours to walk around this late in the evening, while searching the street inconspicuously for any trace of the boy.

The old grey haired lady was frantic with worry and anger. Where had Harry Potter disappeared to? And where was that sneaking smelly thief, Mundungus Fletcher, who was supposed to guard Potter?

On the way back to her house she was just approaching the entrance to the narrow alleyway that connected Wisteria Walk with Magnolia Crescent, when suddenly the sultry summer night around her changed abruptly. She felt chilliness emanating from the opening, as if a giant cold box had been left open.

Peering around the corner of the first garage, she saw – nothing. It was pitch black inside. Arabella couldn't make out the distant glimmer of the streetlamp at the other end on Magnolia Crescent anymore, which was very odd. From far away she thought she heard a shout, but nothing more. Should she venture closer? A feeling of absolute dread came over her; there was something truly ghastly and horrible in that alleyway.

"Good gracious, what is going on?" she whispered in shock, dithering on the spot. All her instincts screamed to run away, to hurry to her house, to lock all doors and windows against a terrible danger, gather all her cats close by and hide somewhere. However, her feeling of duty kept her rooted to the spot. What if Harry was in danger?

Arabella felt so utterly useless and inadequate, if she only could do magic, but she couldn't transfigure a teabag into a cat toy.

Suddenly a loud Crack like a gunshot or a car backfiring rent the unnatural silence. Arabella gasped, did someone shoot with a pistol or gun, or was that the sound of Apparition or Disapparition? She waited and listened, her heart nearly jumping out of her throat in fright.

A minute later, the abnormal coldness and absolute blackness cloaking the lane dissolved. The summer night was just like before. Stars began to sparkle in the sky above. The old squib heard the low noise of traffic on the next street humming again and she could discern the faint glow of the streetlamp on the other side. Everything seemed to be alright again. Slowly she shuffled into the still dark, shadowy passage and looked around, but she couldn't see anybody standing there or running away.

What should she do? What had that been? Arabella thought about possible explanations. That sudden coldness limited only to the inside of the alleyway had been unnatural. A warm summer's night didn't suddenly turn into winter's frost, so it _must_ have been caused by something or someone magical. The eerie coolness and the feeling of approaching dread, of unspeakable horror – she had heard that was what Dementors felt like.

Was that possible? A Dementor, here, in Little Whinging? Dumbledore had been afraid that something would happen to Harry, that Death Eaters where out to get him. But a Dementor attack?

The old lady slowly tiptoed along between the fences and garages of the properties on either side, fretfully looking around for any clue of what had happened here a few minutes ago.

Suddenly, her tartan slipper made contact with something on the ground.

"Aih!" Arabella shrieked, jumping in fright and stumbling, barely catching her balance by grabbing for the fence to her left side. Trembling in fear, she stared at the object that had tripped her. On the ground was a large shape. In the darkness it was hard to make out any details, but it looked almost like – like a large human. A man shaped body was outstretched in the dirt, unmoving, too still.

Panic-stricken, she shuffled back. The dreadful feeling was squashing her heart brutally again, she felt as if all air and strength whooshed out of her.

"Oh my, no, not Harry," she whimpered, clutching one shaking hand over her mouth, while the string net bag of cat food clattered to the ground.

Cautiously, she stepped closer to the body again. Her panicked eyes racked back and forth over the form on the ground, and then her flustered mind slowly caught up with her senses. No, that was not Harry. Harry was slight, thin, not tall and fat. The shape on the ground was too large. She took a deep breath of profound relief, fighting down her panic. She dearly wanted to run away, but she had to make certain if she recognized the body and if they were dead or merely unconscious.

Slowly Arabella bent down, peering at the face and the clothes. She rose again, stepping back and shuffled around the body, to look at it from the other side. Maybe the lighting was a bit better from that angle. It was really dark here, very difficult to make out the features. She thought she heard a soft noise, a wheezing sound. Yes, whoever lay here was breathing slowly, so they were not dead.

In that moment a rumbling noise caught her attention, light swept above her for a second. A car was approaching one of the garages on the other side of the alleyway. It turned a bit, and for a short while the car lights illuminated the space between the garages. It was a hard contrast between darkness and overly bright light, but enough illumination for Arabella to recognize the prone figure.

"Dudley!" she exclaimed. It was Harry's fat lard of a cousin. His chest rose and fell; his jaw was slack, the tongue lolling out a bit, spit dribbling down his chin. The eyes were open, but stared vacantly up into the sky. He wasn't dead or unconscious, but completely unresponsive, a frightening sight.

Now what to do? Arabella contemplated to hurry and inform his parents, or going to her own house and to call an ambulance. But her top priority was Harry. She searched for and picked up her bag of cat food, then began walking purposefully down the pathway in the direction of Magnolia Crescent, keeping her eyes on the ground. She would first check if Harry was also somewhere around here – she dearly hoped not - and after that she would go towards Privet Drive and inspect the Dursley residence. She could always knock and ask Petunia if Harry was in, making up something about needing him to paint the fence or some such other small summer job fit for a teenage boy.

Arabella tried to comfort herself. Maybe she worried about nothing; perhaps Harry had returned by some other way and was safe inside his relative's house by now! And maybe that drunken scoundrel Fletcher came back; she would box his ears and then he could assist her in searching for the precious boy or better, Apparate straight away to Headquarters to inform the Order and Dumbledore what had happened on his watch.

At the back of her mind worry nagged. What if the sound she had heard had been someone Disapparating? What if someone had kidnaped Harry?

Or was it possible that the teen had done accidental magic? Like Disapparating himself to flee from the danger? If there truly had been a Dementor attacking Harry and his cousin that would be reasonable, possible. Of course, she'd read somewhere that normally Hogwarts students didn't learn to Apparate until their sixth year, but she remembered hearing and reading stories about Harry Potter, that he had done magic above the abilities of his year mates. Like winning the Triwizard Tournament, for Merlin's sake, as a fourteen year old!

* * *

><p><span>Back in the Dark Lord's study at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire.<span>

Harry awoke slowly, dizzy and with a killer headache. Instinctively he curled in on himself, arms and legs tight against his body and one arm covering his head, trying to protect himself should his uncle be around and start trashing him, again. He kept himself very still, his breathing shallow and regular out of habit; somehow he was always aware of his sore ribs.

He had no idea where he was or what had happened. Broken snatches of fearful dreams and violent memories drifted across his mind, but made no sense. He remembered an odd feeling, as if someone had licked his hand, neck and cheek. The feeling reminded him of his childhood, when he had stayed at Mrs Figg's and played with her cats and their kittens. Sometimes a kitten had licked and nibbled at his hands or face playfully.

Gradually he became a bit more aware of his surroundings. He was lying on something firm, dense, silky soft, yet hard at the same time. The air around him was warm, a comfortable temperature, but not as hot, stifling and humid as he remembered the evening air in Privet Drive. He was not outside on the yellow grass in the park or inside on his mangy bed or the dusty hardwood floor in his room, or in the stuffy cupboard under the stairs. He would have recognized the smells or the feeling of a wide outside space or of oppression.

Something massive and warm was close all around him, not upholstery or some other fabric like bedcovers, stone or wood, but it felt alive. It had a faint, but distinctive scent, which he wasn't familiar with. What could that be? It didn't feel threatening; it didn't hurt him so far.

There was noise, voices arguing above him, and a hissing, almost purring sound vibrating close by, but he was so out of it that he couldn't understand anything.

When no imminent new pain accosted him, Harry relaxed a fraction. Keeping his eyes closed and breathing calm he started cataloguing his injuries. His head hurt on top and on the side – oh, he remembered hitting the window frame, and someone had punched him in darkness, but he wasn't sure who. That explained the dizziness, he had another concussion. Just great. His neck and throat hurt – that had been the shaking and throttling by his uncle, and someone else had grabbed his neck later – but who?

And his ribs and stomach hurt. It was an only too familiar feeling, so that was most likely from Dudley's fists hitting on their favourite target, his freak of a cousin. Vernon was more likely to grab his arm, haul him upstairs, throw him inside his room, backhand him or box his ears before locking him in or to deal out another leathering to 'cure' him of his 'abnormality' or to punish him for some perceived wrongdoing.

Harry's back and shoulders smarted. No wonder, Vernon had punished him recently, yesterday evening. The wounds had been only scabbed over but now they were ripped open again. He could feel blood trickling sluggishly over the skin underneath the baggy tee shirt, at some places it stuck. Damn. His wrist and fingers were still sore, but not so bad, those older injuries were healing well. But his left shoulder, elbow, hip, both knees and shins hurt, especially his left knee. That's new, he thought. I must have fallen down on hard ground very recently. Did I trip over something?

Urgent questions tumbled over each other in his throbbing head. Where was he? What had happened? And why did his head hurt so much?

He went back in his foggy mind to find a clear memory, when he had tried to listen to the seven pm TV news and what happened afterwards. He had escaped his uncle to the park, and had sat on the swing, brooding. He had thought about running away and how hopeless his situation was. About how frustrated and angry he was with his friends, Sirius and Dumbledore.

The sun had set; he distinctly recollected the beautiful reddish golden, hazy light. Sometime later he had heard Dudley and his gang walking past the park, it was darker, twilight. The bullying oafs were gloating about beating up some ten year old. Harry had slunk after them, careful to not give himself away. Dudley took the shortcut, that small alleyway to Wisteria Walk and Harry had followed him, keeping his distance.

And then, what had happened? Harry wracked his brain. Why had Dudley attacked him?

Suddenly Harry remembered the skin on his neck prickling, as if someone was watching and sneaking after him, like he was slinking after Dudley! He had looked back over his shoulder, but didn't see anyone.

Unexpectedly everything around him had gone really cold and dark. Turning on the spot, he couldn't see the stars or streetlamps on Magnolia Crescent anymore. He had felt freezing cold, had heard rattling breaths and had felt overwhelming surprise, shock and dread. There had been at least one Dementor! How, why could a Dementor turn up in Little Whinging? The ghastly creatures were supposed to guard Azkaban!

Then he recalled Dudley shouting. Of course the bloody piece of lard thought that Harry was somehow nearby and hexing him with magic, causing the darkness and unnatural coldness. Dudley had run back the alleyway, smack right into Harry.

_Wham! Whack! _Bloody hell!

Dudley had done the only thing the idiot was capable of, using him as a punching ball. So that explained why Harry felt fresh bruises, cracked ribs and had such a headache. He tried to will the pain away, but it was persistent. His head hurt overall, but his scar throbbed too. Almost, as if – it reminded him of – uh, no. No, no. Not Voldemort, the wizard couldn't be around, could he?

Harry tried to stir up what happened next, while he lay dazed on the pathway between the garages and the fence. Ah, yes, he had heard Dudley scrambling up and running away, into the direction of Wisteria Walk, disappearing into the chilly, pitch-black night, shouting and cursing loudly, until he abruptly shut up after one shrill scream.

Meanwhile two cold, rotten, scaly hands had grabbed Harry and lifted him up into the air, despite his desperate struggling. That had been horrible; he hated this feeling of utter helplessness. He had squirmed and tried kicking it with his legs and hitting it with his fists, but to no avail. So, there must have been two Dementors present, the other must have gotten Dudley. Good riddance!

He recalled how he had pulled his wand out of his pocket, luckily it hadn't been broken when he fell down with Dudley atop of him earlier and tried to cast a Patronus at the Dementor. But he couldn't properly voice the incantation, only a bit of silvery vapour came out of the tip off his wand. The Dementor had been very close, sucking the air away in rapid, rattling breaths with its stinking, rotten, hideous mouth.

Harry didn't know if it was in his head or had really happened, but he had heard a cacophony of shrill screams, he saw his mum falling in slow motion, with Voldemort cackling amidst green flashes of lightning, saying 'Bow to death, Harry!'

Quite suddenly he had heard something else close by. A voice speaking in a foreign, odd, harsh language in a loud, commanding tone. The Dementor had stopped its terrible sucking, rasped a reply and dropped him after a moment of hesitation.

Harry had crashed painfully to the ground, somehow holding onto his wand and quickly rolling on to his side and scrambling away from the fearsome creature on instinct, although he was hurting and trembling all over, coughing and gasping for breath, the second time this evening. It had been still all cold and quite dark around him, no stars or moon or streetlamps to cast light, but he had sensed a living presence close by, warmth amidst the unnatural frostiness exuded by the Dementor that caused him to shiver violently.

Then he had smelled a scent he didn't recognize at once, but his brain catalogued it automatically – a memory from the potion's class ingredients' cupboard. The faint fragrance was composed of sandalwood, lemongrass, moss, musk and something else. What would smell like that? It had to be a perfume or expensive after shave. A memory stirred at the back of his mind, somehow connected to second year, Diagon or maybe Knockturn Alley and Hogwarts or was it from last year? He knew that cologne. Who was it?

Harry had felt hope surge in his chest like the sun rising above the horizon. The human that had come to his aid was a wizard, someone powerful enough to influence the Dementor. Remus Lupin had shown Harry that a Patronus worked against Dementors. However, his former Defence against the Dark Art's teacher had never mentioned anything else, but it was obviously possible to give these creatures commands. Which made a lot of sense, if they were used as guards at Azkaban or around Hogwarts like during third year. Harry recalled how Fudge had somehow called that Dementor to execute Barty Crouch junior.

As quickly as he could, Harry had crawled on hands and knees closer to the warmth and the attractive spicy, fresh scent, until his fingertips had brushed soft silky fabric, a cloak or robe. He had tried to speak, rasping out, "Hcheeelp meh!" His neck had hurt fiercely; he coughed again and swallowed painfully. Breathing deeply hurt, too, because of his sore ribs. His whole frame shivered from cold, he couldn't suppress his teeth starting to chatter.

"There you are, Potter!" was spoken above him in a sharp, yet concerned tone. He had looked up. Something pale, something light coloured had seemed to glow in the darkness. He had felt something, a warm hand reaching for him, touching his right upper arm, ouch, right were a bruise from Vernon grabbing him was. Harry had hissed in pain and flinched to the left, only to encounter another hand that grasped his overly large tee shirt and his left shoulder. He had been hauled to his feet.

The voice was very familiar, together with the tall, lean frame, pale face, light hair and the now stronger fragrance of expensive cologne it could only be one wizard. Lucius Malfoy.

What was Malfoy doing here? Why had he stopped the Dementor? It didn't matter to Harry in that moment. The horrible soul sucking creature was still close by. It could've attacked Harry again any second, and he had realized he had no chance in hell on his own. Malfoy was a wizard and he could do magic, he could help, could get Harry away from here, away from certain death or worse and the Dursleys.

Before he could think about if this was wise or reasonable, Harry had leaped at his only chance of escape from Privet Drive. Grabbing for Malfoy's arms, he forced the words out through his burning throat and chattering teeth. "Mhsth Mhahlfohy! Phleeze, Mhsth Mhahlfohy, hcheeelp meh hleeve chere!" he had croaked. "Phleeze Mhsthr Mhahlfoy, dhake hme awahy, dhont leeve hme hcheere! Nhod here!"

Harry's knees turned to pudding, as if someone had cast a Jelly-Legs hex on him. He fell, blackness encroached all around him. Frantically he clutched to the dark fabric of the wizards robes and willed him to understand, to have a heart, to rescue him.

Then he had felt strong arms around him, catching him before he hit the ground. Harry felt safe, as crazy as the situation was. He shouldn't have felt safe at all, the man might kill him any second, but he told the hysterical voice of reason, (or was it the voice of preconceived notions?) to shut the fuck up. As alone, exhausted, hurt, cold, and scared as he was, if there was any strength, warmth, and safety in reach, he was going to take all he could.

The blond wizard had pulled Harry close and whispered, "I've got you Potter. Hold on tight," while turning them abruptly, swiftly around on the spot.

Harry had felt great pressure on his body, as if he was squeezed into some tube of toothpaste. His eyes were pressed into their sockets, he couldn't breathe or scream and then he knew nothing more.

Oh Merlin, thought Harry amazed and thunderstruck. I jumped out of the frying pan right into the fire, literally. I asked, I begged Malfoy to take me away. Has Malfoy brought me to Voldemort? Where am I?

He felt panic rise in him, but he forced it down and reminded himself to breathe steadily, in and out, and to lie absolutely quiet and motionless. Wait and see. Wherever he was, there were no Dementors near him. He was not in that ghastly graveyard; or chained up in a cliché cold, wet stone dungeon _and_ he was still alive, that was more than he could expect, _and_ he hadn't been tortured with the Cruciatus or some other nasty curse so far. Maybe his incredible, but unreliable Potter luck hadn't totally left him?

Harry very carefully opened his eyes a tiny bit and squinted, trying to get his bearings without giving away that he was awake. He must be lying on the ground on a rug, a high quality oriental rug to go by the colours and feeling, not like the fake rug in the Dursley's sitting room. That was the warm, firm, soft hardness he felt underneath.

He was surrounded on all sides by a relatively warm ring of something solid. It felt alive, sinewy. In front of him was a dark shape with a lighter, diamond shaped pattern. This _thing_ moved and rippled softly now and then, he felt vibrations and heard a hissing sound, almost like words.

What on earth was that?

A voice crooned close to his ear, {Mine, fine sssnakeling, shhhh, tasssste good, mine, massster's sssnakeling is fine.}

Uh? He could understand it or them? Harry's muddled mind provided the answer to his question a few seconds later, not that he liked it. A snake. He was surrounded by a huge snake. That was the ring, the enclosure around him. As he closed his eyes again, memories surfaced of the graveyard and of his dream of Voldemort in that dark, shabby house a year ago, when he killed that old Muggle man and later, the other dream with the letter and Wormtail.

Nagini. Oh sweet Merlin, he had such rotten luck! Rescued from the Dursleys and Dementors, but in the Dark Lord's lair nestled inside the curled up body of this huge, man eating snake.

{Nagini, what isss wrong?} said another voice from above.

Harry felt his heart stop for a beat, before it thudded loudly, as if it could gallop away.

Oh gods, thought Harry, this was Voldemort! Right next to him, less than two yards away! Mum, help me! He screamed in his mind. His fucking scar gave a nasty throb.

But the darkest wizard had sounded very different compared to five weeks ago. The voice was friendly, gentle, almost affectionate, (Harry had never imagined that Voldemort of all people could sound so nice) but somewhat concerned. Harry had to fight with himself to calm down, keep absolutely still, quiet and relaxed, listening and waiting what would happen. He could do nothing else.

{Why … Potter thisss way? …eat him alive… I won't … couldn't understand,} asked Voldemort. He sounded curious.

{Massster, massster, no …din..!} spoke the agitated snake. {Sskinny … legsss tastes li… masster…feelsss li… masster's sssnake ... masstersss'ma…!}

Harry paid attention and concentrated as hard as he could. Damn that headache and the blood rushing in his ears, what was Nagini saying?

{Sssure, my sweet?} Voldemort asked.

{Yesss, I am sssure! Can't you tassste his essence? Can't you sssmell him with your nose, massster? The ssskinny two legsssy feels and tastesss ssso very similar, almost like you, massster,} the snake explained.

{I don't want him ass dinner anymore, he is only bonesss and ssskin anyway, not tasssty and juicy. Because sssnakeling is maybe a good mate for massster? Or isss thisss your kin, your sssnakeling, and massster only forgot that while massster wasss weak sssuch a long time?}

Harry didn't understand. What did Nagini mean? What was this crazy snake talking about?

{No, I cannot sssmell that what you sssay,} Voldemort replied. {I sssmell Potter's sssweat, the dirt and blood. I sssmell, I sssense that he is hurt and afraid. However, he isss not my kin, not my brother, nephew or my ssson, if you mean that? I have no kin.}

Yeah, right, that's ridiculous, commented Harry in his mind. I'm not his son. Why does the snake think that we are related?

{But masster, he tassstes and feelsss so sssimilar, very much like you!} Nagini repeated stubbornly. {Only difference isss, he ssstinks of fear, blood, injuriesss and sssweat, and you are powerful, clean and dry,} she clarified.

{Oh! Perhapsss becaussse we ssshare blood? I took a sssmal amount of hisss blood to recreate thisss body,} Voldemort responded.

{I don't know why, massster,} the snake answered. {Massster, I like to be near him,} Nagini added to Harry's utter astonishment. {Sssnakeling feelsss good. Comforting. You know, a little bit like a sssun warmed rock, even if he isss ssso weak, hungry, thirssty, afraid and hurt ass he isss. Mussst heal and feed him, then he will feel better. I want him near me.}

Uhh? Harry was very confused. What was Nagini talking about? It appeared that Voldemort was just as confused as he.

{But why didn't you noticsse any of thisss at my rebirth, in that graveyard?} Voldemort asked.

{I do not know massster, maybe becaussse I wasss not so clossse to him like now? I did not touch or tassste him then like today,} Nagini replied.

{Hm. Never mind, I do not underssstand how you can sssense thisss, but it doesssn't matter, only that you do. Well, thank you, my dear. Ssso you think this ssstarved sssnakeling isss not dinner? Potter can ssserve usss better alive?} said Voldemort.

{Yesss, massster,} answered the snake. {But you must firssst heal him and feed him. He cannot ssserve you like thisss.}

Oh, that sounded much better. I'll serve him all right, until I figure out what's going on. Thanks, Nagini, for saving my neck, thought Harry.

A moment later he heard fabric rustling, and felt the vibrations of steps through the floor underneath him. Voldemort had risen and walked away. It was quiet; he could hear the breathing of two other humans not far away, one of which Harry supposed was Malfoy, and the soothing breathing and soft hissing of the snake, as if she was humming a snaky lullaby to calm Harry down. Everybody in the room was waiting with more or less bated breath on the Dark Lord's decision.

After a while, he heard and felt Voldemort move again. Steps vibrated through the hardwood floor, a chair scraped, he must have sat down.

"Lucius, Garrick." Voldemort spoke curtly.

"Yes, my Lord?" Malfoy answered.

"Master?" another male voice said.

"Very well, I forgive your brazenness, as you both acted in my best interest. Thank you, Avery, for discovering Potter's whereabouts and calling on Lucius like you did. Thank you, Lucius, for saving Potter twice tonight, despite risking my anger with your actions. Both of you proved your loyalty and served me well," spoke Voldemort.

Harry was flabbergasted. Voldemort sounded reasonable, nothing like the murderous mad man from the graveyard.

"Thank you master," gushed the other male, sounding very relieved. So this must be the Death Eater named Garrick Avery. Harry remembered him. Avery was the first one who cracked and spoke in the graveyard, begging for his master's forgiveness.

"I'm glad to serve, my Lord," Lucius said obsequiously, before adding, "Moreover, consider how the boy turned to me for help. As Avery said, he must have been absolutely desperate to escape from Surrey, not just from the Dementors."

"Hm, yes, that's unexpected and most peculiar. Why would Potter want to leave the protective wards?" Voldemort queried.

"I'm not sure, yet," replied Lucius, "but if what Avery suspects is true, he wasn't safe at his relations at all. I didn't want to believe his claim of abuse by those Muggles at first, it sounds so far-fetched. Why would his relatives mistreat the precious Boy Who Lived? But we can all see that this boy is weak, starved and hurt. Someone must be responsible for his sorry state. I'm sure Potter will cooperate once he can think lucidly and speak clearly again, then we might discover something that fundamentally changes the stakes in the war."

Harry was shocked by what he heard.

They knew of his shame! Of how his so called family acted towards him and that he couldn't stand up to them. Oh no! They knew of the wards around the Dursley's house! This Avery must have watched Privet Drive in the past days. But if he was a Death Eater, how could he get so close to the house? And today Malfoy and Avery had saved his life. A life debt. He remembered that was a serious thing in the wizarding world. He, Harry Potter, owed two Death Eaters some mighty big favours. And Nagini had spoken for him too. Oh, oh, oh. Bloody hell. What to do?!

Voldemort sounded dubious. "Hm, maybe."

Malfoy spoke again, "Perhaps if Potter starts to trust us, he can be persuaded to see things from our point of view. He may be of great use to you. Just imagine my Lord, if he could be turned. The perfect spy."

What? Harry snorted inwardly. But, he thought quickly, I must play along for now, I need their help. I have no other choice.

"Indeed, that would be fortunate," agreed Voldemort. "Very well, assess Potter's condition, heal him enough for interrogation."

Malfoy sounded relieved. "Thank you my Lord, I shall do my best."

* * *

><p><span>Meanwhile at Number twelve, Gri<span>mmauld Place in London, England.

In the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix everything was peaceful. Well, as peaceful as it could be inside a derelict, ancient wizard house, overcrowded with a conglomeration of stressed adults and rowdy teenagers.

After the evening meal and the following clean-up of the kitchen, most of the inhabitants had retired to the drawing room. The high windows were thrown open, to entice a breeze to cool the hot, stuffy air. Several of the adult wizards had repeatedly cast cooling charms during the day, but it didn't help for any length of time. London lay under an utterly sweltering heat wave. Now, as night was falling, the humid air was becoming more bearable. The gas lamps spluttered, more light was provided by hovering candles.

Mr and Mr Weasley shared a sofa, occasionally talking softly, while Molly knitted and Arthur sorted through a stack of Daily Prophets and Quibblers. In a corner of the room was a small table with two chairs were Ron Weasley and Remus Lupin were totally engrossed in a game of chess. Fred and George sat together with Sirius and Ginny on mismatched, but comfortable plush chairs and the dark green sofa around another table, laughing their heads off, because a moment earlier the cards of the Exploding snap game had singed Sirius' eyebrows and moustache.

In the girl's shabby bedroom Hermione Granger half sat, half lay curled up on her bed around a thick, leather bound book, trying to concentrate on Ancient Runes in the light of a spluttering gas lamp and three candles hovering above her. The windows to her room were thrown wide open; it looked towards the street and the miniature park in the middle of the square, Grimmauld Place. She wasn't afraid of any Muggles looking into her bedroom because of all the wards and Anti-Muggle charms protecting the old Black family's townhouse.

Studying something demanding like advanced Ancient Runes was the only way Hermione could distract herself from worrying about Harry. Hedwig had brought several letters to Ron, Sirius and her from Harry in the past four weeks. Of course her best friend was frustrated that nobody responded to his pleas for news or told him when he would be able to leave his relatives. That he didn't like it in the Muggle world was clear. She hoped that Harry was all right and didn't do anything rash.

Professor Dumbledore had forced them to swear not to write to Harry anymore, for security purposes. He reasoned that their owls might be tracked and could lead the Death Eaters to Harry. If they caught him, he would be as good as dead; Voldemort would torture and kill her best friend in the most gruesome ways possible. If Harry knew anything about the Order, Voldemort would extract that knowledge and so Harry must be kept in the dark, for his own and their safety. Hermione didn't like this one bit, but what could she do?

The young witch was disturbed in her attempts at studying by a sudden _Pop_ sound from outside. Curious, and more than eager for any kind of information, she jumped up and raced over to the window. Leaning far over the windowsill, she caught a glimpse of a shadowy person running up the stairs to number 12. A relatively small man, squat, with bandy legs and long, straggly ginger hair. She recognized him, that man was called Fletcher.


	6. Chapter 6

General Disclaimer and Warnings, please see chapter 1.

* * *

><p>Hearing the Dark Lord's order at Malfoy to heal him enough for interrogation, Harry decided to give up his pretence of sleeping. He opened his eyes, blinking a few times to clear his sight and slowly pushed himself up on one arm, wincing and hissing from the sharp pain in his ribs, back and shoulders as he moved his torso up until he carefully half sat, half leaned against Nagini's coils.<p>

He quickly glanced around to orientate himself in the room. He and Nagini lay on a nice red and blue rug with medallions and finely executed floral motif right in the middle of a square room, lit brightly by a dozen hovering candles overhead. The walls were lined with cabinets, bookshelves, wand panels, and decorated with several maps.

Two closed wooden doors in different walls, one besides a fireplace, so the other door led presumably out into a hallway. One mullioned window in the wall opposite, but he couldn't run and escape that way – not that he dreamed of doing that in his current condition – because it was right next to a desk. Behind that desk sat obviously Voldemort, clad in dark blue robes, and two men equally clad in dark wizard robes were standing next to Harry and the snake, in front of the desk.

He felt dizzy, the room seemed to sway and tilt around him, so he closed his eyes again, and concentrated on breathing steadily. Nagini hissed soothingly next to his head. {Hello sssneaky raven, what'sss wrong with you? Don't be afraid, massster will help you sssoon.}

Harry didn't answer, he wasn't sure yet whether it was a good or bad idea to reveal that he understood her. But he wanted to show that he was friendly, grateful and not aggressive, so he slowly stretched out his right hand and gingerly caressed her skin a few times, just as if he would pet a cat, a dog or a Hippogriff, it didn't matter. He didn't really think about the possible danger or how odd this would look to his rescuers or kidnappers or whatever they were.

Nagini eyed the boy's movements and the progress of the hand warily; ready to strike and nip him with her fangs should he try to pinch or hit her, only to be pleasantly surprised when she felt the gentle touch turning into stroking and petting. {Yesss, that feelsss good! Fine ssnakeling, sssuch a polite boy,} Nagini commented.

Harry blinked and peeked at her, not able to suppress a happy smile. He felt the same thrill he had felt in Magical Creatures class, when he won the trust of a dangerous beast like Buckbeak and was able to pet him for the first time, while nobody else dared to go near them.

The three wizards had noticed Potter stirring and turned to look at him, puzzled. Malfoy and Avery exchanged a disbelieving stare, their eyes widening, eyebrows identically arched upwards. Only their many years of pure-blood training stopped their jaws from hitting the floor.

Voldemort heard and understood Nagini's hissing, but wasn't sure if he had heard correctly - again. He scrutinized Potter who had finally woken up, only to blink in astonishment as he noted his demeanour. Potter didn't scream or jump up in a panic, trying to scramble away from the snake and the wizards in the room like any normal captive would do, instead he leaned his head and shoulder against Nagini's twice curled body as if she was a sofa cushion, reached out a hand and - he was truly petting her!

The same thought showed upon the men's faces: Harry Potter was stroking Lord Voldemort's perilous, poisonous familiar as if she was a cute kitten and the snake obviously liked his attention. Another unexpected development. When would that boy stop being so, so weird, so unpredictable? Why wasn't he showing fear of the snake or the situation he woke up to?

Harry noticed the absolute stillness in the room. Nobody was talking, so he carefully opened his eyes completely and peered up at the three men. Noticing their gobsmacked stares, he tried to supress a smirk, but his lips quirked upwards a bit. He kept quiet; he didn't want to say anything if it wasn't absolutely necessary while his throat hurt so much, and so he lowered his gaze again at Nagini's head.

Watching her sway back and forth in pleasure, he continued to stroke her glittering scales, mesmerized by the intricate diamond shaped pattern and the sensation of touching a living snake. This was his first time doing that after all. He had only seen and spoken to that giant boa at the Zoo a few years ago, not touched it like this, and the fight to the death with the King of Serpents at the end of second year had been a terrifying, violent encounter.

Lucius shook himself out of his stupor and stepped closer to Potter, drawing his wand. The boy looked doubtfully up at him through his wild, dark fringe, quickly glancing towards the Dark Lord and back to Lucius' face, ceasing the petting of the snake. Wincing he pushed himself a bit more upwards into a freely sitting position with his legs crossed, then stayed still, calmly poised, waiting, his hands on his knees and his eyes fixed on Lucius right hand holding his wand. He didn't act at all like one would expect the young Gryffindor or any other Light side prisoner of war to act like.

"Potter? I'm going to examine you now. Do you understand?" asked Lucius.

The boy nodded once; ashamed of his condition he stared down as if the floral pattern of the fine rug was the most interesting thing on the world.

Malfoy pointed his wand at Potter to cast the diagnostic spell meant to ascertain the overall health and state of injuries on the young man to determine how to best fix the worst damage.

Unexpectedly Voldemort interrupted him, rising swiftly from his seat and calling out, "Stop, wait Lucius!"

Malfoy looked puzzled to the left at his master, holding his wand at the ready. Potter raised his head and also regarded Voldemort with a surprised, worried and curious expression.

"Did you or Garrick cast anything at Potter before now? Any kind of magic, like a Stunner, or maybe levitate him?" queried Voldemort, twirling his own wand agitatedly in his long, thin fingers.

"No. No we didn't master," replied Malfoy perplexed, wondering what this was about and looking over to Avery for confirmation, who made a short gesture of denial.

"So you brought _that_ boy _here_, into _your_ manor, into _my_ presence, _without_ scanning him or his clothes for tracking or eavesdropping charms or some kind of listening device?" Voldemort asked scathingly. "What if there is something on Potter that records not only magic cast by, but magic cast at him and transmits that information? Or a Portkey?"


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer and Warnings, please see chapter 1.

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><p>Lucius paled in shock and fright, he felt his heart drop down into the wine cellar. How could he have been so careless, forgetting elemental security measures like that!<p>

Harry sat rigidly, watching the discussion wide-eyed and scared. Nagini hissed, feeling the tension in the room rise.

"My Lord, I - I – ," stuttering in his haste, the blond wizard dropped to one knee on the floor, bowing his neck before the curse hit him.

Voldemort casually cast the Cruciatus on him for a few seconds, cutting his attempts at apologizing off. Lucius didn't scream; he only clenched his fists and teeth, biting his lip to keep quiet.

"Don't," snapped his master when Lucius tried again to express his regret. "Just remember this for the next time. Don't underestimate Dumbledore. All of this," he made a wide gesture with his arm, encompassing his men and Harry and the situation in Little Whinging, "could be an elaborate trap of him, using the boy as bait! Now get up!"

"Thank you. Of course you are right, my Lord, I was extremely careless," agreed Lucius, reddening a bit in embarrassment as he elegantly stood up again and brushed of his robes.

Merlin's beard! I'm a nitwit, no, worse, a Chizpurfle infested troll! Lucius fumed at himself. Such an error one would expect from a seventeen year old recruit, not from him, right-hand man of the Dark Lord! If Narcissa or Severus heard of this, they would tease and rib him forever. Good that only Avery and Potter witnessed his blunder, and not the entire inner circle. Avery wouldn't tell anyone, if he didn't want to risk painful retribution. Potter? Well, he'd talk to the boy later, in private.

Voldemort gazed at Garrick hovering in the background, appearing inconspicuous, intend on letting Malfoy take the brunt of the punishment should their lord lose his temper.

"Well, Garrick? Did _you_ have the presence of mind to consider checking the boy over before entering this house?" Voldemort asked, his voice dripping sarcasm, because it was quite clear that neither of his Death Eaters had considered it in their rush to escape the Dementors and rescuing Potter.

Nor had he; when they had entered the study, he had been too surprised and confused, but of course nobody would point that out loud. The idea had suddenly popped into his mind, when he watched Potter sitting there so calmly, stroking Nagini, and not acting at all like he had expected the young man to behave when awake again.

"N-no, master," replied Avery, eyes downcast, apprehensive and mortified, his short feeling of elation at Malfoy's mistake evaporating. He didn't voice any apology or excuse. Both of them should have thought about examining Potter, checking his clothes and wand before crossing the iron gate, for Morrighan's sake!

Voldemort sighed, he had cursed Garrick already, when he didn't deserve it; on the one hand he didn't want to appear soft, but on the other hand he intended to send the man back to Surrey soon, to observe if Aurors or the Order of the fried chicken was on the scene, so it was prudent to let him be, restore his energy and send him back in a top condition ready for spying or battle. Decisions, decisions.

He gestured to the coffee table between the two chairs at the side of the office.

"Come here Garrick, sit down. It appears those Dementors scared both of you out of your minds; you need to get some chocolate and a stiff drink into you. Lucius, procure some refreshments for all of us and a first aid potions kit for the boy."

"Oh, of course, how remiss of me. What would you like, my Lord? Whisky, brandy, port wine?" Lucius asked politely.

"Coffee, calvados and mineral water, please."

Lucius snapped his fingers to summon a house elf, which appeared instantly with a _Pop_, bowing so low that its nose touched the rug.

"Debby, get us refreshments, coffee, calvados, mineral water, tonic water, lemonade, brandy, a selection of my chocolate boxes and a complete first aid kit. Be quick about it!"

"Yes, master!" the elf squeaked, before it popped away.

Harry had watched them worried, but also fascinated. He had expected that Voldemort would lose his temper and cruelly curse everybody in the room, himself included because he was a likely target, but that hadn't happened.

He wondered about the respect and politeness between the wizards and the short interaction between Malfoy and the house elf. Debby, maybe she was a sister of Dobby? That was something he hadn't witnessed before, but then Harry had never been a visitor in a household of a pure-blood family except the Weasleys, who were dirt poor, so they didn't own any house elves.

Harry had thought that the way Mr Malfoy and Mr Crouch had mistreated Dobby and Winky was normal for such evil people, pure-bloods, or the way Voldemort treated Wormtail, and the way Voldemort had behaved right after his resurrection in the graveyard. It had seemed a given after Harry's encounters with Voldemort the spirit or parasite or snake-demon that cruel, blood thirsty and raving mad was his standard behaviour, but that was obviously not the case. And Harry had never thought about why Dobby was so eccentric or why Malfoy had appeared to be so angry at his servant.

Malfoy was clearly the master of Debby, just like Voldemort was the master of Malfoy and Avery; he had all the power – Harry remembered what Quirrell or Voldemort had told him in first year; there is no good or evil, only power. But these two wizards did not grovel the same as Wormtail; and Voldemort listened to them, well, most of the time. He had been very pleased with Avery for taking initiative to find Harry, for Malfoy and Avery doing something without direct orders, when the risk they took paid off so well. How weird. What was happening to the world? He'd have to observe them over a longer time to form a valid opinion.

Harry thought of something else; that harsh, gravely, odd language Malfoy had used in that alleyway. What did he say to stop the Dementor? How come the ghastly dark creature obeyed him?

Huh, Hermione would be so proud of me, Harry patted himself mentally on the shoulder. He studied during the summer holidays! Not Care of Magical Creatures, or Defence against the Dark Arts, but Care of Dark Side Beings and Creatures, with a special project on the manners and moods of You Know Who. He snickered to himself, imagining her face when he presented a notebook full of his observations and asked her in which class he would get the most points for this. Ron could never know, he'd be mad, hate him for even thinking like this, sitting here and stroking Nagini. It would be like second year combined with the first part of fourth year. Same for Hagrid, Sirius or Professor Lupin, they wouldn't be amused or understand. At all.

He was shaken out of his musings when Malfoy suddenly stood directly in front of him and Nagini, tapping him quickly on the shoulder with his wand. Harry couldn't suppress a flinch and stared alarmed up at the lean, elegant platinum blond man, his heart jumping into his throat. Oh Merlin, he was dreaming about telling Hermione, when he wasn't sure at all if he would survive the night, not to mention the rest of the summer!

Lucius looked frustrated and impatiently down at Potter. Honestly, what a time for the boy to be daydreaming! Or was he out of it because he had a concussion?

"Potter, what do you have to say? Do you know of any such monitoring, tracking or eavesdropping charms cast on your person?" Lucius inquired for the second time, pointing his wand menacingly at the boy's heart. "Do you have a Portkey to Hogwarts? If this is some scheme of Dumbledore's and you were playing me for a fool, you are going to be very sorry!"

Nagini understood the wizard and reared back, raising her upper body and hissing threateningly at the boy, {Did you try to fool masster and hisss servants? Did you let the Evil One curssse you on purposse, ssso you would appear to uss ass ssick and helplesss? I'm going to sssquash your ribss and tear your gutss out if you tried to decsseive massster and me!}

Harry stared horrified from Malfoy's face to Nagini and over to Voldemort, who stood scowling at him from behind his desk, his wand trained on him. Not good. What paranoid people, really! As if he could do anything to them before he was hexed into next week! What were they talking about, what kind of eavesdropping or monitoring spells? They thought he or Dumbledore had faked his injuries? To do what? To get caught on purpose and to spy on Voldemort or to kill him? Oh Merlin's soggy balls! He wasn't James Bond…

Harry scratched up all of his resolve, fixed his eyes on Malfoy's vicious steely grey gaze, and concentrated on deliberately speaking English, not Parseltongue.

"Nho, nhothing!" Harry croaked out, raising both of his hands palm outward and gingerly shaking his head in denial in a spontaneous Muggle gesture to show that he didn't hide anything and was not hostile. He instantly felt the pain in his neck and throat and everywhere else flare up.

"Pl-ea-se Mi-ster Mal-foy," he spoke raspy and haltingly, it was so difficult to speak, "th-is is no ga-me or pl-ot to de-cei-ve you. I'm rea-lly hurt. My un-cle, he al-most ki-lled me to-night. Du-dly and that De-me-nthor re-lly a-ttack-ed me!"

The young raven haired man took a few deeper breaths, which made him wince and hiss from the sudden pain in his ribs. Holding his arms tightly around him to provide some form of bandage, he slowly changed his position to kneel in front of Lucius.

With great effort he spoke, trying to convince the wizards of his innocence, "Pl-ea-se, beh-lie-ve mhe! Ihf I had ah Po-rt-key to flee to Hog-wha-rts, do you thin-kh Ih whou-ld ha-ve stay-hed at Pri-vet Dhri-hve uhn-tilh my un-chle nh-earhly khill-ed me? Dum-bhle-dho-oe wha-nted me to sta-hy phut the-re for the who-le suh-mm-er. He for-bihd meh any con-tact with the wih-zar-dhing wo-rld. Soh-rry," he gasped out, before doubling up in a painful coughing and choking fit, tears burning in the corners of his eyes.

Malfoy watched him keenly, before wordlessly casting _Anapneo_ at him to clear the boy's airways.

After Harry had calmed down again, he reached up to gingerly stroke over his sore neck, indicating that he did have a huge problem. Speaking so much was not a good idea with such a hurt throat and as thirsty as he was. Looking up again, he rasped, "Phlea-she, wha-ther?"

Lucius lowered his wand, ignoring the plea for the moment. "All right, so you don't know if such charms were cast on you. Of course it is possible to do that without you noticing anything."

Harry shrugged one shoulder, then gazed over to Voldemort, his face a mask of worry and pain, breathing troubled and wheezy. His throat was on fire. "Ih dho-nt kno-wh, hohn-esly, shi-rs," he insisted. "Phle-ase? Wha-ther?" he added, eyeing Lucius again.

Lucius regarded the boy a moment longer, and then looked over to the Dark Lord. Voldemort had sat down again and nodded regally, so he believed the boy's words and body language.

That solved, Lucius decided to get something to drink first, before he resumed the questioning and examination. In the meantime Debby had delivered several trays to the middle of the coffee table and was just serving the Dark Lord his coffee and drinks. Turning, Lucius picked up a glass of tonic water for himself and then levitated a glass of water to Potter. Avery could take what he wanted on his own; the man was sitting right next to the table, observing everything quietly.

Harry watched Malfoy closely, quickly snatching the tall glass out of the air and taking small sips, although he yearned to down the whole content at once. The feeling of the cool liquid was heavenly, refreshing and soothing, although swallowing was very painful and he nearly choked, his throat was not working properly. He grimaced and wished that the Dementor had gotten his rotting hands on Vernon, so that his uncle could see if he liked being throttled.

When he looked up again, he saw how Malfoy quickly levitated his own empty water glass back towards the table and summoned two vials from a casket towards him, they flew smack into his outstretched hand. Turning back he offered Harry the potions, "Drink."

The boy eyed the man's hand wary, mouthing 'What is it?' without speaking.

"For the start, general healing potion and pain reliever," clarified the older wizard impatiently.

Harry smiled gratefully. After setting down his water glass, he reached for the vials and winced when his fingers touched Malfoy's. Both wizards looked astonished at each other, feeling a spark of electricity pass between them. When nothing else happened, Harry opened the vials and drank the potions in small sips. He grimaced and shook himself from the taste.

Lucius tapped Potter's glass once, it instantly refilled with water.

Harry drank more in small swallows, careful to make short pauses again to avoid choking or throwing up everything right away. The potions began to work, he felt the overall level of pain diminish and a strange tingling and itching everywhere especially were bones were cracked or broken like in his neck, hands, wrist or chest.

When Potter set the glass down, Lucius pointed his wand at Potter's neck. "This might feel strange, Potter. I'm going to set your nose and start mending your throat. Episkey, Episkey!"

Harry winced from the short burst of scrunching, realigning cartilage, tendons and small bones, it hurt, a really weird sensation in his face and neck. He tried to swallow; it went a bit better than before.

"Tha-nk youh vh-ery m-uch," he said, looking from Lucius to the Dark Lord. Harry sighed in relief, his mouth and throat had been really parched; now he felt much better, although it was annoying that his throat was still so damaged that he couldn't speak properly.

Lucius was eager to continue his examination, so he asked, "Do you carry perhaps something like a tracker on you? Something that could have been charmed without your knowledge? Maybe jewellery, a badge?"

Harry shook his head at once, honest confusion on his face. He never had considered something like this. He hadn't known there was such a thing as a tracking charm! But it made sense. Was that how the fucking Ministry had known that magic was cast at the Dursleys or where he was when he had run away before third year? Biting his lip, he thought if there was anything he always carried with him, something that someone, Dumbledore most likely, could have charmed without him noticing.

Wait, he had been in the hospital wing, more or less unconscious or dosed with sleeping draught a few times since first year, most recently after _that_ night, so a certain someone could have cast such a charm easily. On what?

Oh! Harry quickly took off his glasses and held them out for Malfoy. And where was his wand? He checked his pockets and the smooth rug inside the curved form of Nagini's body, no wand in sight.

Lucius, Garrick and Voldemort followed Potter's thoughts with ease; the young Gryffindor had such an open face, carrying his heart on his sleeve.

Lucius was careful now, so he first levitated Potter's glasses over on to the floor, well away from each of the persons and the snake in the room, before he cast a series of detection spells, murmuring under his breath, too low for Harry to catch the words.

There was no Portkey, spell recording or listening charm, but the tracking charm revealing probe reacted at once.

"My Lord, there is a tracking charm on Mr Potter's glasses, nothing else," Lucius informed his master.

"As expected," commented Voldemort, flicking his yew wand to levitate the frame onto his desk; if Dumbledore had charmed Potter's glasses, it could be tricky. Before he started to examine them further he asked, "Bye the way, where is your wand Potter?" speaking to the boy directly for the first time.

"Ih dho-n't kn-ow, shi-hr," replied Harry, shrugging and looking from Voldemort to Malfoy and Avery. He wasn't sure how to address Lord Voldemort correctly; he wasn't one of his followers, he didn't want to call him 'Master' if he could avoid it. Well, 'Sir' was always proper, wasn't it? The elder wizard didn't seem to mind.

Voldemort fixed his ruby stare onto Lucius, who was already pulling the boy's wand out of a pocket of his robes with two fingers while walking towards him. He placed the wand very slowly and carefully on to the corner of the desk as if it was a volatile potion that could explode any moment, and bowed briefly before stepping back. After what happened at the graveyard, it was no wonder that they all were cagey about Potter's wand.

Voldemort let the holly wand lie there for the moment and cast another kind of detection spell at Potter's glasses, paying close attention. The ugly dark frame – he wondered, why did the boy wear something so mediocre - had been charmed, by – surprise, surprise – Dumbledore himself with a standard tracker. He recognized the old wizard's magical signature at once. Smirking he banished them far away. That would cause the old coot and his rag-tag band of misfits to search for a while!

He cackled in glee, which garnered him very nervous glances from Potter and his servants.

Ignoring them, Voldemort scrutinized Potter's wand before he gingerly cast a revealing spell on it. Nothing untoward happened; this kind of spell was neutral, the magic posed no extensional threat either to the wand or its owner.

Potter's wand had the usual underage wizard Trace upon it, something that he had expected. And another tracking spell, courtesy of Dumbledore, of course, but nothing else, so he dared to briefly touch it. Picking it up, he instantly felt a connection. Not as strong or overwhelming as the sensation had been back in Olivander's shop when he found his own yew wand as a boy, but there was something, this wand felt compatible to his magic.

Caressing both wands with his long pale fingers, he took his time to compare them, opening his senses to feel the complex layers of magic wound around and bound inside the thin pieces of wood. Although the wood of the two wands was different, they felt somehow similar. Interesting, Potter's wand felt warm and familiar, as if he had held it before. A true magical connection.

That was no coincidence. He remembered Lucius' and Nagini's words. Was this the feeling that Nagini had tried to describe as a sense of kinship or of a mate?

Voldemort set at once to dismantle the tracking charm, he didn't want to destroy Potter's wand when it felt so – so good, so right in his hand. For a moment he debated whether he should try to cast something with it, but decided against that option. Later, tomorrow would be time for more study and experiments. He'd learned his lesson from the graveyard, better to be careful and not to assume anything.

While Voldemort examined Potter's wand, Malfoy proceeded to cast the same array of detection spells at the boy. Harry endured the probing stoically, sitting back comfortable again. He recognized the wand pattern as the same that Malfoy had used earlier to check his glasses, marvelling at the speedy, elegant flourish of the blond wizard's movements and that he didn't have to speak the incantation out loud. Nagini was calm and friendly, ascertained that the young wizard hadn't fooled or tricked the servants of her master.

"All right Potter, all clear," Lucius commented as soon as he was done, sure that nothing ominous was hidden in the boy's baggy clothes or upon or inside his body.

Meanwhile, Harry watched curious and somewhat alarmed how the Dark Lord compared their wands. Now the snakelike wizard moved his own wand back and forth in an integrate pattern over Harry's wand, while murmuring a string of presumably Latin phrases under his breath.

"Ahem, Sir? What are you dho-ing with my wah-nd?" Harry asked, pleased that his articulation had improved somewhat.

"I checked it for the Trace and other charms. There was a standard tracker on it, like on your glasses, I disabled it," Voldemort explained, once he was finished.

Lucius and Garrick exchanged a surprised glance. When Potter spoke without permission, they had expected Voldemort to react irritated or angry, to snap at the boy or to punish him, not to explain himself in such a neutral tone.

"Uh? Plea-se, sir, what is this tra-ce, and whe-re are my gla-sses? Oh, was it Dhum-ble-dore?" Harry blurted out, before he bit his tongue. Probably it wasn't such a good idea to ask questions? One of the main rules at the Dursleys was, not to speak until spoken to and don't ask questions! Would Voldemort be angry at him?

"You know your Headmaster well by now, don't you Potter?" Voldemort answered, sounding amused to Harry's immense relief. "He cast the tracking charm. The Trace monitors your wand. This charm is put on all wands sold to underage wizards. That's how the Ministry knows if you cast magic outside of Hogwarts or during the summers, if you live in the Muggle world. Your glasses are gone, I banished them far away."

"Oh. That's ihn-ter-es-ting. Whe-re? Why?" Harry dared to ask. Voldemort seemed to be in a talkative mood.

Voldemort chuckled. "We wouldn't want Albus to interrupt our cosy get-together, now do we? Your glasses are up north on Iceland, inside the Gímsvötn caldera underneath a glacier called Vatnajökull." He grinned like the Cheshire cat, a most disturbing sight.

Harry blinked and intoned, "Vhat-na-joeh-kuel?" Thinking, where was that again?

Voldemort nodded, smirking wickedly, Malfoy and Avery smirked and chuckled too. Potter looked uncertain.

"Wonderful, my Lord! Splendid idea!" Avery praised.

"Oh, to be a spider on the wall in his office tomorrow! He will send a search party of his chicken club or maybe set out himself to rescue his lost lion. They shall be traipsing all over the Orkney, Shetland and Faeroe Islands until they find the glasses on Iceland. If they find them at all, maybe the volcano is active again, ha! Brilliant, my Lord," congratulated Malfoy.

Harry tried to remember what and where that was from his long passed Geography class in primary school. When he did, his face lit up, joining Voldemort and the others in their mirth.

After a while Harry got his sniggers and chuckles under control and calmed down. "Ser-ves him ri-ght, for lea-ving me wi-th the Dur-sleys," he murmured spitefully under his breath.

Harry snorted to himself; this was so bizarre, he and Voldemort and his men laughing together about something. If Ron could see them, he would faint or blow up, Harry Potter wishing Dumbledore misfortune. Well, precious, famous Potter was rather disenchanted with the Headmaster at the moment. Harry glanced at Malfoy and Avery, they smirked too. He would, Malfoy hated Dumbledore.

Voldemort was, again, astonished at Potter's behaviour. He contemplated the visible evidence. Potter was not himself, or a shell of his former self, at least physically. His demeanour was that of a completely different person. Nothing left of the Light side hero, the goody two shoes, the brash, arrogant Gryffindor. Or perhaps he and everyone else had only ever seen a mask, a brave façade so far, that hid the true Potter!

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><p>AN: <em>The Trace.<em> I'm going with a more fanon interpretation that_ The Trace_ is a Ministry required charm put on his wands by Mr Olivander after manufacture and before they are sold to eleven year old children, and not a monitoring spell that is somehow mysteriously charmed onto the physical body of the young, underage wizard when he or she reaches Hogwarts the first time, because of all the inconsistencies and contradictions regarding T_he Trace_ in canon.  
>My interpretation is similar to what for example Batsutousai explained in Xerosis.<br>(Of course it is quite possible that JKR will clear this dilemma up in time on Pottermore ;-)

Chizpurfles are small pests, according to _Fantastic Beasts and where to find_ them by Newt Scamander and JKR.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer and Warnings, please see chapter 1.

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><p>While Voldemort stared mesmerized at the Potter boy sitting now cross legged inside Nagini's coils, Malfoy cast cleaning charms on the raven haired young wizard to get rid of the filth covering him.<p>

Harry jumped and winced when he felt the strange sensations of _Tergeo_ and _Scourgify_ sweep over him and his clothes. His skin felt raw, as if he had been scrubbed down all over with a rough cloth or a soft brush.

Next the blond pointed his wand at the boy, whispering, "_Patefacio Valetudo_."

Harry flinched again when he saw the yellow light of this unknown spell shoot towards him, but relaxed when he felt no negative effects. His skin glowed for a moment.

They all watched as a melange of red and orange blotches appeared over the boy's head, throat, chest, abdomen, shoulders, back and lower back. His upper arms, wrists and hands showed more yellow and orange. The lower part of his body displayed more yellow, with a few smaller red and larger orange spots on his backside, knees and shins. On Harry's side was a red spot over his ribs.

Lucius was immersed in the results of the medical scan, while mechanically sipping from a sniffer of brandy and nibbling on Swiss chocolate and French truffles to calm his frayed nerves.

Shaking his head incredulously, he finally said, "Narcissa and Severus would understand the scan results much better than I do, but it appears that Potter was beaten up regularly. Some ribs are cracked, one is broken, the nose, jaw, the left hand and wrist broken, two fingers on is right hand, and more. Tendons and joints are strained. He has a concussion. A fresh wound right on top of his head from some recent blow with a sharp angled object. Extensive bruising all over, also internal bruising, stomach, spleen, kidneys, luckily no ruptures," Lucius summarized.

"Potter's throat is quite hurt from someone nearly throttling him to death a few hours ago. There are several minor fractures in his larynx and trachea, the vocal cords are not all right. However, this damage is already healing. Furthermore there are some fresh injuries on his back. This boy is chronically sleep-deprived, completely exhausted. His innate magic must have partly healed him during the past weeks, because the older injuries have begun to mend on their own. There is no evidence of any professional healing spells or the like before this evening," Lucius concluded.

Scowling, he looked between Potter, who sat there hunched, biting his lips and with his eyes fixed firmly on the rug, to his master. "After what Avery and I witnessed, this damage was deliberately done by Potter's own relatives' right under the nose of Dumbledore's Order of the flaming chicken." He clenched his fingers onto the grip of his wand, which excited a few dark violet sparks, he was so furious. "Holy Circe! How dare they! They must pay."

"Hm, yes. All in due time," commented Voldemort, rising from his seat and walking around the desk to get a better look at the boy. Staring down on him he asked, "Potter, what's wrong with your back and shoulders?"

"No-thingh." The boy looked to the side, he hunched his shoulders, flushing again, his neck and ears red from embarrassment.

Malfoy snorted, "Potter, we know it's certainly _not_ nothing. Remove your shirt."

When Potter didn't react save biting his lips and averting his eyes, he abruptly made a quick motion with his wand, banishing all of the boy's raggedy clothes, leaving him in the nude.

Potter cried out in frightful surprise, flinching violently and staring up at Lucius and Voldemort with wide eyes for a second, before he curled up on himself, lowering his chin upon his knees and closing his eyes, as if he could hide this way. His breathing was fast and ragged.

The three adult wizards barely refrained from gaping undignified. They scrutinized the disturbing display of a much too thin body, vertebrae, shoulder blades, ribs and hip bones protruding, the torso covered in a display of older and newer bruises, cuts, burn marks and scars. Walking around the snake cradling the boy, they all got a good look at his upper back, the skin criss-crossed in a perverse pattern of faded old scars and newer welts from his shoulders downward. Some bled or oozed pus sluggishly.

The shocked silence was only broken by Potter's erratic breathing, his ears, head and neck flushing red. The boy looked like he wished to sink into the floor from humiliation. He trembled, hunched his shoulders and shielded his groin with his tightly closed legs. Avoiding their eyes he stared down at Nagini's body. The snake hissed softly and nudged his arm gently, flicking out her tongue, as if she wanted to comfort the boy, curling closer all around him.

Lucius cursed under his breath, while quickly conjuring a soft brown-green silk and wool blanket to cover the shivering young man. Potter flinched at first, then quickly grabbed the blanket and pulled it close around him.

Garrick turned around and went back to stand near the door gritting his teeth and balling his fists. In his anger he punched the wall; he had seen enough. He was a Death Eater, he had fought and killed their enemies in the first war, but to see the hailed Boy Who Lived in such a condition shocked him to the core, confirming his observations of the last few days. If they, the Dark Order, had imprisoned, starved, tortured and raped him for a month, Potter should look similar, but not after living a month at his so called safe home in the Muggle world!

He felt rage at the Muggles, and Dumbledore's idiotic band of sycophants for not noticing or not intervening in time. He wanted to Apparate back to Privet Drive right away to burn that house to cinders. With the Muggles inside, alive and awake, of course. With Fiendfyre. Fire to cleanse the world of these filthy fiends, how fitting.

Voldemort abruptly turned on the spot and strode over to the window. Breathing heavily, his heart thudding in his chest he set his stare on the stars of the Summer Triangle twinkling in the velvety darkness above the shadow of the evergreen hedge, on a target far away, lest he lost control.

His hands grabbed the windowsill like claws, digging into the wood, scorching it so that a bit of smoke curled upwards. He was so angry that his magic leaked out. It cost him real effort to contain the blazing rage at the Muggles and Dumbledore, his magic was coiling in his centre, ready to strike out. The temperature in the room went up, his robes moved on their own, the window glass and some things lying around rattled. One command, and he felt he could burn down Malfoy Manor.

He found his mouth dry as a parched desert, as he hurriedly pushed the haunting memories from his own orphanage days back into the darkest recesses of his twisted mind, pulling an image of Potter to the forefront instead, or better, several images.

The first, of toddler Potter standing wobbly in his crib, right after his mother died, staring at him with eerie calmness in his Avada Kedavra green orbs despite fat tears trickling down his cheeks, ready to take the green light of the Killing curse shooting towards him.

The second, of the small, thin eleven year old Potter in the Great Hall at the Sorting and standing before the Mirror of Erised, lying through is teeth and thereafter fighting bravely, like a wildcat against Quirrell, scorching him to death.

The third, of the fourteen year old Potter, standing trembling, shocked and bleeding next to the Riddle family's gravestone with his holly wand raised, surrounded by a circle of Death Eaters, ready to fight a duel against the resurrected Dark Lord the boy had no hope of surviving, but facing certain death courageous and brave.

And the fourth, of fifteen year old Potter of today, naked, exposed, ashamed, covered in scars and bruises of a lifetime of suffering.

On Potter's right arm, just below his elbow, there was a scar that Voldemort had expected, from the knife wound to get the brat's blood for the resurrection ritual. And he remembered that Potter's leg had bled that night. The boy had been injured during the third task in the maze, so if there was _one_ scar on his leg, that was all right too.

But the rest of the scars, the state of Potter's body spoke to him of depravity of the deepest level, proclaiming their origin and purpose. Ruthless punishment, needless savage cruelty against a helpless wizard child done over years by a despicable piece of stinking, worthless Muggle filth.

A whip, belt or a cane had been used. They must have locked him in, with no meals as a standard punishment. There were several patterns of small, round burn marks on the skin in certain places. Perhaps cigarettes?

This was – unacceptable. Malfoy had had blood on his glove because he had simply carried the boy.

Voldemort struggled to keep his face impassive; his hands now twirled his wand. He silently summoned his glass of Calvados from the desk and took a few sips to calm himself. He was concentrating on his mantra of revenge for the past, the present and the future.

I have magic, I am powerful. I am Lord Voldemort. I can squash those vermin Muggles. Never again. They will pay. Dumbledore will pay.

If he hadn't heard from Severus before this day that Potter was allegedly well sheltered by Dumbledore and spoiled and coddled by his Muggle relatives, he would have assumed at once that this boy was the victim of typical Muggle abuse. The unkempt, starved appearance and the visible damage on Potter's body fit that pattern only too well.

But Dumbledore would not leave his _Golden Boy_, the famous _Boy Who Lived_, in an abusive Muggle home, would he? Nevertheless Garrick and Lucius seemed very sure that the boy _was_ mistreated by those same Muggles!

Mind boggling. That could be an incredible opportunity to exploit. And it would explain Lucius's and Garrick's sudden protectiveness of the brat.

A wizard child mistreated by Muggles? That was something despicable, outrageous, calling for gruesome punishment. A wizard child mistreated by his own Muggle relatives _with_ knowledge _and_ possible consent of Albus Dumbledore, meddler of too many names and titles, the venerable, honourable leader of the Light side? The ultimate Scandal, priceless.

Looking over his shoulder to Lucius and Garrick, he saw the same burning hate and rage, the desire to rip the Muggles apart, along with the incompetent Order guards. Potter held his head and hissed in pain, he seemed to suffer from another strong headache despite the pain medication.

Lucius exclaimed, "Outrageous! That those Muggles dare to do this! I'll show them a Dark wizard's wrath!"

"Indeed." The Dark Lord turned and sat down behind his desk, nodding at Avery.

"My Lord," bit Avery out through clenched teeth, "may I leave? I've a bonfire to start in Surrey! With some fat pigs to roast alive."

Voldemort grinned malevolently. "Yesssss, that would be a good idea, I'd love to join you and Lucius too. However, I fear you'll have to restrain yourself tonight. Soon these Muggles will die, but not yet my friend. I have a task for you that is more urgent."

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><p>AN: _Patefacio Valetudo_ = a medical scan spell I made up because I couldn't find a suitable incantation for this purpose from canon. From Latin, it's supposed to mean 'show or make visible the state of the body or the health.' A variation of this spell will produce a complete medical history, but that is a more complex spell for Healers, Medi-wizards or witches.  
>I don't think someone like Voldemort or one of his Death Eaters would have any reason to know that, but I assume that they know battle first aid well enough, to fix common injuries, just like Aurors do.<br>In the 6th book HBP, N. Tonks finds Harry on the train and she fixes Harry's broken nose with _Episkey_, whereas in the 6th film Luna Lovegood finds him and performs this same spell.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer and Warnings, please see chapter 1.

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><p>Before Voldemort could tell Avery what he had in mind, Lucius looked intently at his master and cleared his throat, indicating that he wished to interrupt.<p>

"This is much worse than I thought," he said. "Do you want to summon Severus, my Lord?"

Hearing this, Potter gave a sudden squeak, coughed, then glanced from Lucius to Voldemort, moving his head sideways and gesturing with his right hand 'No!' emphatically. All three wizards turned to stare at him, frowning in surprise.

Voldemort wondered why the boy didn't want professional help, from a person he had known for four years. Even if Potter believed that Severus was a Death Eater, who despised him, the man was his teacher, someone familiar.

"You don't want us to call Severus?" he questioned. "He's my Potions Master and also trained as an assistant healer. Be assured that he shall heal you most effectively. We," he made a gesture encompassing himself, Avery and Malfoy, "know first aid of course, but we are no healers. Severus is better qualified."

"No! Plea-se, no! Sna-pe will tell Duh-mble-dhore!" Potter again shook his head; he spoke urgently, while gesturing insistently with his hands.

Stunned they stared at him. Potter feared _that_ more than the three wizards before him? If Voldemort had needed any proof that what Avery and Malfoy reported was true, this was it. Potter must really have been desperate to escape from his so called 'safe house' in the Muggle world and the dubious 'protection' of the Order of the Phoenix.

Before Potter had said anything, Voldemort had already decided what to do. The boy's plea confirmed his resolution. "No," he answered Lucius' question, looking at the elegant, blond wizard. "If Severus is not alone at home when called, the old meddler will suspect at once that we have Potter. The timing is too suspicious."

He glanced at the upset, trembling, half naked boy that looked at him with a pleading expression, weighting the possible options.

"I'm expecting him to turn up tomorrow anyway. He should have finished brewing a batch of standard healing potions and Polyjuice for us. You'll have to make do with your own potion stock until tomorrow."

Lucius nodded. "Of course, master. Shall I call my wife to assist?"

"Not yet, only when we absolutely need her healing skills," said Voldemort. "Narcissa or Draco didn't notice you arriving with Garrick and Potter, did they?"

"No, I don't think so. Draco is spending tonight at the Zabini's," clarified Lucius.

"Good; see that it stays this way, I intend to keep Potter's presence here quiet until further notice," commented Voldemort.

"As you wish, my Lord."

"Move Potter to my rooms, clean him up and fix him. Nagini will accompany you and watch over him. I'll join you in a few. Do you have some Dreamless Sleep potion to give him afterwards?"

"I do," replied Lucius.

Harry watched them literally talk over his head. He worried that if Snape would see him here, he'd tell Dumbledore, then somehow 'rescue' him or get Aurors to storm this place, which he now believed to be the house of the Malfoy family. Regardless, if Dumbledore got wind of where Harry was, he would probably be forced back to the Dursleys. Vernon would beat him to a bloody pulp and kill him with his bare hands if something had happened to Dudley, and Harry was rather sure that the other Dementor _had_ gotten to his cousin.

Voldemort _might _decide to kill him sometime in the future, but wanted to interrogate him first, that's why he ordered Malfoy to heal him – that was definitely the better option. He seemed to be fascinated with Harry's wand and Nagini wanted him as company. At least a small chance to survive, hopefully he could offer Voldemort something to bargain with.

Harry also believed that if Snape saw him like this, he would later tell all his Slytherins and taunt Harry mercilessly in potions class, but that was only a possibility relevant should Harry survive the rest of August and return to Hogwarts – something that wasn't guaranteed at all.

Potter had watched their exchange silently. He still looked worried. Before Voldemort could say something else, the boy moved from his sitting position to his knees and tried to get his attention, looking him straight into the eyes.

"Sir?" Harry sat up a bit more, wincing as he shifted on his aching shins and knees and trying to appear respectfully.

Voldemort looked down at him, raising a curious eyebrow. "Yes, Potter?"

"Sir, Ihm rea-ly wor-ried that Sna-pe will tell Dum-ble-dhore whe-re Ih ahm," said Harry with difficulty in a raspy voice. He looked over to Malfoy. "Plea-se, Ih doh-nt wha-nt to cau-se throu-ble for the Mal-foys. And, and Ih dohnt whant to go back. He wou-ld kill mhe for sure. Phlea-se, sirs, Ih ask for you-r pro-tec-tion. For s – sang-tu-ary."

Harry coughed and winced, that had been too many words, his throat was sore again despite the pain reliever. There, he had said it out loud, the unthinkable. As an afterthought, he added, "I'd ra-ther die by your hand, Lord Vol-de-mort, than go back to Sur-rey."

The three adult wizards in the room had a hard time of keeping their faces blank, again. Slytherins they might be, but this evening was one shocking surprise after the other. Harry Potter, the famous Boy Who Lived, Dumbledore's Golden – or obviously not so Golden boy, knelt of his own will in front of the Dark Lord and Lucius Malfoy, asking his enemies for sanctuary. They were not sure whom Harry feared would kill him if he was forced to go back, but most likely his bastard of Muggle uncle.

"I shall talk to you later, Potter," said Voldemort. "Don't fret about Severus."

Seeing the boy starting to protest with gestures, Voldemort spoke harshly over him, "Don't talk back. Be assured that Severus shall not tell Dumbledore anything, even under Veritaserum."

This seemed to placate and comfort the boy; he nodded and smiled tentatively up at the tall, snake like wizard sitting behind the desk. Incredible, Potter really felt safer here.

"Go now with Lucius. He will take care of your injuries and give you some more healing potions. You will obey him and don't do anything foolish, will you?" Voldemort demanded.

"Yes, sir, of cou-rse. I'll beh good. Than-k you for your kindh-ness," he murmured gratefully, calming down somewhat.

Voldemort observed how the boy held himself, how he answered. He was seeing a completely different personality compared to the courageous, fierce Hogwarts champion from five weeks ago. This was intriguing and disturbing on so many levels!

He turned around to face Lucius, demanding, "Before you leave, I'd like to borrow your Pensieve, if you would," dismissing him with a wave of his hand towards the door.

Lucius had watched them with bated breath. He'd never seen his master act like this before with a captive – well, Harry Potter certainly was not like anybody else! He hastily sketched a bow, and then snapped his fingers for the house elf. Debby popped in front of him, eager to serve her master.

"Debby," he addressed the elf, "go to my private study and bring us my Pensieve. Put it on this desk. Here is the key to open the left drawer in the larger mahogany cabinet."

Lucius reached into an inner pocket, searched for a moment and handed a small brass key to the house elf. Seeing Debby gaze up at him wide-eyed, wringing her hands and opening her mouth, he cut her question off. "Yes, yes, you are allowed to enter my study tonight for this task. Do you understand?"

Debby squeaked, "Yes, master, thank you master," and popped away again.

"Potter, get up! That is, if can you stand and walk?" Lucius asked the younger wizard still kneeling on the floor and watching him intently. The large snake had slithered forward and now wound her way over his thighs, around his hips and torso over the blanket, circling him and hissing something, her mouth closed. It sounded not really threatening, but he couldn't be sure.

Potter didn't seem to be as frightened as any other, normal prisoner would be if such a huge, dangerous reptile held them down like this. Lucius wondered why Potter seemed so at ease with Nagini, as he thought about using a charm to move Potter and the snake together to follow the order of his master. But what if the snake took that the wrong way and attacked him or bit the boy?

He knew that this snake was poisonous, deadly poisonous and terribly strong. If she used her strength, she could crush Potter's scull, ribs, spine or pelvis without any difficulty. Suddenly, he became aware of a soft, almost inaudible hissing. Was that Potter whispering to the snake?

Harry had stretched out a hand and stroked Nagini's head and neck, hissing softly, {Nagini, let me up pleasse?}

Nagini turned her head and asked astonished, {You ssspeak?}

{I do,} whispered Potter. {Please? I mussst go now. Missster Malfoy sshall heal me, you heard masster ssaid sso.}He noted that he could pronounce the soft sibilant tones of Parseltongue a bit better compared to English.

Nagini uncurled swiftly, and moved next to him to support Harry's arm from beneath, so that he could stand up slowly and shake his legs out after the long kneeling on the floor. He was careful to keep the blanket wound around him like a kilt.

{Thanhkhsss Nagini,} Harry hissed at the snake, before he turned to Lucius. "Yhesss sshir, Ih ca-n," he croaked in an odd mix of Parseltongue and English, feeling only mild embarrassment that he still couldn't talk correctly, they all knew why. It took time for his throat and neck to heal. Slowly he began to walk towards the door Voldemort had indicated earlier.

{Come my sssneaky raven, follow me, quickly, thisss way,} enthused Nagini, nudging him and then slithering rapidly forward to open the door. She was exited, finally she met another speaker! This raven haired, small snakeling was just like her master, only much younger, gentle, polite, sweet and innocent.

{I'm coming, I'm coming, alright!} Harry replied, smiling at her eagerness and the nickname she had dubbed him with.

He still was rather dizzy and in dulled, numbed pain all over, but he felt much better already because of the completely unexpected way he was treated here. Voldemort and his men were surprised and distrustful, quick to anger, but not unreasonably so. They only examined and questioned him; they didn't torture or taunt him like one would expect. Harry felt ashamed that anybody saw his scars, how pathetic he was, but these Slytherins didn't scorn him, they got angry not _at_ him, but _for_ him, promising dire retribution to the Dursleys from what he had overheard.

None of his friends would believe him if he told them what happened tonight! He felt like in the Twilight Zone. Maybe all the blows to his head this evening had knocked him out and this was all a dream?

Harry knew he lived on borrowed time. Nothing guaranteed that he would still be well and alive tomorrow evening. After all Voldemort could change his mind any minute, but Harry thought that anything was better compared to what would have certainly happened to him if he had managed to run away from those Dementors and returned to number four, Privet Drive without Dudley tonight.

So he shrugged it off and followed the large snake into the adjoining room, which turned out to be an elegant, yet simple furnished living room, similar in size and layout to the study, but without a desk. Instead there were two very old and comfy looking dark brown leather couches forming a large L and a matching wing backed chair facing them, all with side tables and a free space in the middle. This was occupied by another large, beautiful hand crafted Oriental rug of light beige and accents of muted browns, reds and blue, looking like a field of ornate exotic plants and flowers sprawling across the floor.

On one of the side tables was a high stack of various newspapers and periodicals, on another books, on a third small table Harry noticed a chessboard with a game in progress. In one corner stood a decorative, high bookcase, made of dark brown wood with glass doors and two drawers at the bottom, but from his position Harry couldn't see what was inside.

There were two mullioned windows in the outer wall instead of the one in the study. The side opposite the door through which Harry had entered, held another door and a fireplace, like the one in the study. The walls were hung with middle to dark green, beige and brown tapestries in a style unfamiliar to Harry. Not that he knew anything about decoration or home interior styles. They looked kind of like forest scenes, with here and there an animal or colourful mythical creature peeking out of the lush foliage, very soothing.

The room was nice, relaxing, absolutely beautiful compared to the Dursley's lounge and nothing like Harry had imagined Voldemort's quarters to be – well, to be true he hadn't ever thought about how the Dark Lord might live, as he only had dreamed of that old, dark, derelict house of Voldemort's father's family last year. If he would have imagined anything, it would have been dark, dreary, cold, and horrible, kind of like the Hogwarts' dungeons mixed with the graveyard.

Lucius stood rooted to the spot, staring astounded at the unlikely pair disappearing into the Dark Lord's drawing room.

He'd heard rumours that Potter spoke Parseltongue. That reporter, Skeeter, had written something in the Prophet a few months ago. Draco had insisted that it was true, that he'd seen and heard it himself in second year, however Lucius hadn't believed him. Great Salazar. Maybe he should buy his son a new broom tomorrow as appeasement? He shook himself out of his stupor and strode after Potter and the snake, briefly flicking his wand at the potions casket and one of the tablets laden with drinks and chocolate to follow him hovering through the air.


	10. Chapter 10

In the meantime Voldemort had turned to Garrick, but he stared to the boy with a similar look of utter surprise on his face at hearing the soft hisses and watching Nagini and Potter interact.

Incredible, Voldemort thought. The Boy-Who-Lived is a Parselmouth!? Why didn't I known that? Was it possible that Nagini was right and they were truly somehow distantly related?

Oh dear Morrighan. What if – what if he had interpreted the first line of that prophesy completely wrong? What if Potter was the one that had a mysterious power to vanquish him, but was supposed to add his power, to join their powers somehow? To fight with and for him, not against him?

Not now, stop running in circles, he told himself. I must acquire more information, first and foremost from and about Potter, and then I can worry about that thrice damned prophesy.

"Garrick." Voldemort spoke briskly, concentrating again on his servant; he would deal with Potter later.

"Yes, master?" the man answered, stepping in front of the desk.

"Over there in that filing cabinet," Voldemort pointed out, "in the left upper case are special vials for memories. Deposit your memories of the past days, of how you found Potter's house and what you noticed there in one vial, and separately the events of this evening."

"Yes, master," Avery nodded, but waited if his lord had more orders for him.

"Then Apparate back to Potter's home and observe if any wizards are on the scene," commanded Voldemort. "After all, it is equally probable that the streets around Potter's relation's house are crawling with Aurors or that the Ministry didn't even register Potter's attempt at the Patronus charm and Dumbledore's misfit's club has no clue so far of what happened. What is Potter's home address, by the way?"

"He lives on four Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey." Avery walked over to the map of England hanging on the wall. "That's here, in the farthest north of Surrey, north of the Thames, to the west of Heathrow Airport and to the north-west of Staines, master," described the dark blond, elated that his initiative had paid off so well.

Voldemort rose from his seat and came to his side, peering at the map and memorizing the location. He tapped the map with his wand, which caused it to zoom in on Little Whinging.

Avery pointed out the streets. "Here, that is Privet Drive, this is number four. And here is the shortcut, the alleyway, where Potter was attacked by those Dementors. I use this public Muggle park as Apparition point."

"Good, I see," commented Voldemort.

Avery looked at his master from the corner of his eye. He never had been this close and felt safe, but tonight something had changed. He was pleased that the Dark Lord was in excellent spirits, acting rational and interested in what he, Malfoy and Potter had to say. Avery didn't know what his master had talked about with his snake, but Nagini obviously had said something important about Potter and it had looked like she was defending the boy. The way the boy had acted had been so unexpected. Whatever it was, it had a good, calming influence on the Dark Lord's temper, and he had managed to contain his fury remarkably.

So he ventured forward, asking, "Sir, do you want me to spy on or talk to any Muggles, see if they noticed anything? It's possible that the second Dementor kissed Potter's cousin. Maybe someone has found the body by now and brought him to a Muggle hospital? Or maybe the Dementors attacked other people? In any case it's a serious breach of the Statute of Secrecy, if Muggles are found lying around scared out of their wits or like vegetable with no explanation."

Voldemort nodded. "Good point, Garrick. If there are no Oblivators cleaning this mess up, it will make the local Muggle news by tomorrow morning. Did you have the impression the Dementors were simply looking for random victims, or that they attacked Potter on purpose?"

Avery was quiet for a moment, before he turned, facing his master fully. He spoke assuredly, "On purpose I would say. One Dementor went straight for the boy and completely ignored Malfoy and I, until Malfoy approached it and started to speak. The other one attacked Potter's Muggle cousin."

"Hm. So that implies some fool high up in the Ministry or the DMLE must have sent them deliberately," said Voldemort thoughtfully. He started pacing across the study and speaking more to himself than to his servant, who leaned against the desk, waiting.

"Lucius and well, all of you at the Ministry reported that Fudge and his staff are completely paranoid. Of course we wanted to discredit Dumbledore, to limit his influence, and what happened in the last few weeks' works well in our favour. But this is extreme, way over the top, sending Dementors after a barely fifteen year old boy living with Muggles." Voldemort sneered, abruptly turning around and pacing back. "That's something people would expect from me, the big, bad, insane, evil Dark Lord. This attack on Potter is practically an execution and as you said a severe breach of the Statute of Secrecy. I didn't anticipate anyone in the Ministry would overreact like this. At least there's method in _my_ madness."

He huffed and whirled around again with a wide gesture, walking around the other side of the desk and stopping in front of the window, his silk robe rippling around his tall, lean frame like swirling midnight blue water.

"Yes, Master, exactly," Avery agreed. "I've heard people talking in the Ministry about silencing Potter, same as Malfoy heard, but who would do something as unreasonable as this? Maybe Yaxley or Selwyn overheard someone scheming or boasting?"

Voldemort nodded, he would call on them tomorrow.

"Master? May I propose something?" asked Avery. When Voldemort gestured for him to speak, he said, "We could use this incident to unnerve the public and put some pressure on Fudge and the DLME to further destabilize the situation. Dementors out of control near London, Corruption in the Ministry, Misuse of Power, or some such headline."

"Indeed." Voldemort turned around, smirking; he was pleased with this suggestion.

"Very well, go back to Surrey. Check out that Muggle scum's house. Don't attack them – yet. They will get their just deserts, in time. For now I want to keep our presence quiet. Should any Aurors or Dumbledore or his people be there, I'd like to know who was or is there and what they believe has happened. Write up a short report and send it here," ordered Voldemort. "You said that guard was like deaf and blind, didn't you?"

"Yes, master," answered Avery. "Different people from the Order took shifts watching Privet Drive over the past days, but they never went near the house, at least not when I was there."

Voldemort looked questioningly at him.

"Well, I couldn't watch them or the boy 24/7, as I had to show my face at work and at home sometime to avoid raising awkward questions. Often, like yesterday there was that thief hanging around, Mundungus Fletcher. He's a crock, a stinking piece of drunken, filthy rags."

"Ah, yes, I've heard of him. Never anything good, Severus despises him," stated Voldemort.

Avery nodded, scoffing, "Dumbledore's truly going senile, if he leaves the boy's security in the hands of such a legless knob as Fletcher. He just sat on the other side of the street in the shade of a tree, hidden under an Invisibility cloak, grumbling to himself about the smashing good deal he would miss if he hung around any longer.

"I had to leave, and when I returned later in the evening, he was gone. I searched the neighbourhood and found Potter in that small park not far away, all alone, right before I Apparated here to get Lucius," Avery explained.

"Very well," commented Voldemort. "After you've ascertained the situation in Little Whinging, inform that reporter contact of yours. It would be fortunate if they could interview a Muggle that has felt or seen something horrible and unnatural and has not been Obliviated – yet. The newspapers do not necessarily have to know at once that Harry Potter was involved, only that two Dementors turned up in a Muggle village near London and attacked people. It also depends on whether or not that silly trace on Potter's wand registered any magic done or not. Any ideas?"

Garrick nodded, grinning smugly. He was really getting used to talking with his master like this, in a, well, normal way and felt at ease.

"My Lord, it so happens that I _cultivated_ a _relationship_," he sneered disgustedly, his voice dripping in disdain, "with a mousy half-blood witch that works as an assistant in just the right Office, Improper Use of Magic, name's Mafalda Hopkirk. That's how I found out in which Muggle neighbourhood Potter's home is located. After, well, ahem, you know, nailing her, I got her to talk about the famous boy, because he has livened up her daily, dull routine several times. Then it took me a while of systematically searching that area until I found the wards around four Privet Drive. They light up this Merlin forsaken, otherwise magic less Muggle suburb like a shining beacon."

Voldemort was pleasantly surprised by the young Death Eater's intelligence and actions, Avery did his best to rectify his past mistakes. He remarked dryly, "Your horrible suffering for the cause has been duly noted. And what did Mr Potter do that was so extraordinary that _Madam_ Hopkirk remembered it?"

"Potter has done magic during previous summers and received one official warning because of a hovering charm in July 1992," Avery recounted the information he had sweet-talked out of Hopkirk. "In the summer of 1993 he did some powerful accidental magic. Imagine, Potter blew up a fat Muggle woman; she was flying towards Greater London like a large balloon.

"And not to forget, on the first of September 1992 he made headlines in the evening edition of the Daily Prophet because he and a friend flew with a stolen car from London Kings Cross all the way to Hogwarts. That caused quite a ruckus at the Ministry. They had to send out every Obliviator they had, even called wizards back from holidays or from retirement! I shall visit the tart tomorrow, invite her for a cup of tea and ask if she had a lot of work this week." His blue eyes sparkled in mischief.

Voldemort eyed Garrick appraisingly and smirked, "Good luck. Carry on," before he turned his attention back to Lucius and Potter. Where – ah yes, he heard soft voices through the only partly closed door from his adjoining drawing room. He disillusioned and silenced himself with a thought and slipped quietly inside, closing the door softly behind him.

The dark blond Death Eater was left alone in the study. It took only a minute to concentrate and transfer a copy of the relevant memories into the vials, which he carefully labelled with his name and the dates.

Before he left for his next task, Garrick downed a cup of coffee and picked up a handful of chocolate confectionaries to munch on his way out. He needed to be in top form when he returned to Little Whinging – who knows what he might find there? He hoped for the concealing darkness of the deserted play park. Worst case would be to appear right in front of a tetchy Auror or Order patrol searching for the precious Boy Who Lived – or, no, worse, in front of a Dementor in a feeding frenzy, but with a bit of luck the Dementors were gone by now.

Briskly he strode through the empty hallways of Malfoy Manor, outside across the lawn to the wrought iron gate, which he passed through with his raised left arm, as if it was only smoke. While walking, he cast a silencing spell on his feet, disillusioned himself and then Apparated to the Little Whinging communal park, right into the middle of a cluster of oak, beech, ash, alder trees and hazel bushes, the same hidden spot he had used before.

It was completely dark in the park now, with stars twinkling overhead and the thin sliver of moon low in the sky. He stood motionless and just listened. In the distance he could hear the rumble of Muggle traffic, but it was much less busy now than one or two hours ago. He raised his wand and voiceless cast a weak _Homenum Revelio_ to scan for any humans in the immediate vicinity. The park appeared to be empty; he only got normal readings further away, small groups of live signs, from all those Muggle houses flanking Magnolia Road. Good.

Silent as a cat he made his way through the park, past the swings, to the park gate. A row of street lamps illuminated the road. Most houses were dark, only a few windows shone yellow, red, blue or green, depending on the drapes inside. No signs of anyone out and about, no commotion, no Muggle police cars. He jumped soundlessly over the park gate and strode down Magnolia Road towards Magnolia Crescent in the direction of the short cut to Wisteria Walk and Privet Drive.

Meanwhile, twelve Grimmauld place, London

Sirius was alarmed; Harry had disappeared, and was probably in terrible danger. He'd listened to Mundungus Fletchers incoherent rambling together with Remus and Arthur, trying to find out what exactly had happened, while Molly chased the dismayed children upstairs and sent them to their bedrooms.

The level of noise in the hallway was deafening, Molly was upstairs on the second floor landing, shouting at her children and Hermione, while Sirius's dear mother, Walburga Black, was screeching at everybody in general, the usual sermon about blood traitors and Mudbloods defiling her house.

Of course Hermione Granger had noticed Fletcher coming and had raced downstairs to open the door to his insistent knocking, bombarding him with questions, thereby waking up Walburga's portrait. Molly was a fool, believing she could shield the teenagers from everything.

Remus and Arthur cross examined Fletcher. They wanted to be sure they knew all the facts before attempting to contact Dumbledore. It turned out that Fletcher had abandoned his place of duty; he didn't know what exactly had happened; only what Arabella Figg had furiously screeched at him while whacking him around the ears with her string bag full of cat food tins. Something about a Dementor attacking people, and that Harry was missing without a trace.

Sirius couldn't stand it anymore. Harry needed him, he felt it, something terrible had happened. Without drawing attention to himself, he hurried through the hallway and slipped out of the front door, closing it softly behind his back. He raced down the steps, across the dimly lit street into the little park, where the fence, hedges and trees obscured their Apparition point from Muggle view.

Gathering himself, he concentrated on the coordinates they had all been told for emergencies concerning Harry. It was an out of sight spot quite near the place he had seen Harry for the very first time two summers ago when he had made his way to Little Whinging in his Padfoot guise. He held his wand ready to cast a Stunner, Expelliarmus or a Patronus, took one deep breath, focused on being quick, quiet and determined and Disapparated with a Pop.

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><p>AN: About the possible location of Privet Drive, I took that information from the wonderful hp online lexicon, it sounds logical.<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

AN: After GinHanelle's reviews, I'm contemplating to add a warning for sudden bouts of unexpected humour ;-) didn't want to make you choke my dear, sorry! Who said the Dark Lord has to be dead serious all the time?

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><p><span>Meanwhile on Magnolia Crescent, Little Whinging, Surrey, England<span>

.

_Pop._

With a barely audible sound Sirius appeared in the near darkness behind a garage. Everything appeared normal and quiet, no screams or spell fire greeted him. Not very far in the distance hummed Muggle traffic. He looked around the dimly illuminated street before transforming into his large, black Animagus dog form, and started trotting along the pavement with his nose close to the ground until he came across a trace of Harry, in fact across two sets of trails, going into different directions.

The scent was somewhat similar to how Harry had smelled in the Hogwarts hospital ward right after returning from the third task, but worse. A whiff of dirt, sickness, copper, iron, like – blood. Sirius was already frantic with worry. This finding did nothing to calm him; Harry must have been injured earlier that evening.

He followed the trail of Harry's scent around a corner and along the pavement until he reached the park with the play park on Magnolia Road. There were several sets of different people's smells near the gate, which was closed, but that was no hindrance for the large, bearlike dog. On the other side he found Harry's scent again, but the trail went back and forth. What had Harry done here? Sirius jumped back over the park gate and meticulously searched a widening circle over both pavements and the road until he was sure that Harry had been here twice tonight, but the fresher trace lead down Magnolia Road toward Magnolia Crescent, back into the direction of Privet Drive.

There was one other scent that appeared twice, as if that human, a man, had first followed Harry and then somehow walked again this same way, only a while later. This trail ran parallel with another very distinctive scent that Sirius associated at once with a middle aged man, elegant, wealthy, with very high quality leather boots and an expensive, masculine eau de toilette.

He sped up and jogged along the pavement, tongue lolling out, checking now and then for the scents. Yes they had all walked this way maybe an hour ago? And another group had strolled along this pavement too at about the same time. He found the scent of five males, which he associated with teenagers who had smoked cigarettes and consumed something fermented, most likely Muggle beer.

Sirius reached a point where the second group had separated, one trace led in the same direction as Harry's, the other youths had continued down the main road.

This person's footsteps smelled quite different from Harry's, like fat, sweat and faintly boozy. The two presumably older men had followed them, because their footsteps were distinctly above, not beneath those of his godson and that other bloke's.

Sirius had often been thankful for his Animagus form, which had enabled him to survive Azkaban, to flee and to avoid capture, but tonight it was more important than ever. Using only his eyes or spells, he wouldn't have discovered so much as he did in dog form.

By now he had reached the entrance of a small, dark alleyway. This was the short-cut to Wisteria Walk where he had seen Harry for the first time two years ago, right before the Knight bus had appeared. Mundungus had reported that according to Arabella, a Dementor had been in this very alleyway tonight.

Sirius didn't feel any special dread or an unnatural chill on the air that would announce the presence of a Dementor, apart from a very faint rotten aroma that was dissipating, so he slowly slunk along the backside of the garages and again began to examine the ground thoroughly for any clues of what had happened here. He could distinguish five sets of human traces. Harry, the other fat young male, the two older men and an elderly lady smelling like cabbage and cats, which he recognized as Arabella Figg. Of the older men, one, not the elegant man, but the other, had walked past here again very recently, only minutes ago.

Gradually he noticed that this scent increased the farther he moved into the direction of Wisteria Walk, which meant that this human must be near and standing or sitting still. And the other fatty, boozy smell got more potent, too. Sirius stopped, raising his head and tried to find them in the dancing shadows and near darkness between the garages backside and the fence where no Muggle street lamps shone, but he couldn't see anything. He knew his nose was very accurate while in canine form, so where was that man and where the teenager? Was the man perhaps a wizard, disillusioned or disguised as an Animagus like him? Had this man something to do with Harry's disappearance?

* * *

><p>Garrick stood in the concealing blackness next to a garage's back wall, listening intently. He had cast a Night-vision-enhancer charm on his eyes earlier and therefore spotted the form of Potter's cousin lying motionless on the ground. In the distance, he heard voices, coming closer to his position from the direction of Wisteria Walk.<p>

In the same moment, the hair on his neck rose. He felt that someone was watching him from behind. He slowly turned his head – and couldn't suppress a sharp inhale, for only a few paces away from him stood a Grim!

The terrifying spectre stared at him, hackles raised, lips curled back, maw open, eyes glowing, ready to attack! A low growl rose from its chest, the deadly sharp teeth contrasting to the surrounding darkness.

After a brief moment of panic Garrick realized what, or rather whom he was facing. That Grim could be his death, but it was no bad omen. This dog was a wizard! Wormtail had disclosed that a large, shaggy black dog like a Grim was the Animagus form of Sirius Black, Potter' godfather. So, the Order had been alarmed by someone. He quickly looked over the dog down the alleyway and turned back into the other direction, he couldn't see anyone else.

Garrick had only a second to decide what to do. He could kill, bind or stun the Animagus to stop him from attacking, try to capture him, or he could do something entirely else. Take a risk, gamble, and hopefully win, again.

"Good evening, Black," he whispered, training his wand onto the Animagus, in the same moment as the dog crouched low, preparing himself to jump and rip his throat out. To an Animagus it wouldn't matter much that Garrick was disillusioned, a dog could smell and hear much better compared to a human.

"Grrrrr," the dog growled, but didn't launch itself at the dark blond wizard, yet.

"Nice to meet you too, Black. Are you by chance looking for Potter?"

"Grrrrrr!"

"If you want to know anything about Potter, calm down and be quiet, for Merlin's sake!" Garrick hissed, ready to cast Duro. The arguing voices sounded closer, two males, one older, one younger.

The growling stopped instantly, changing to a whine. The dog sat down, head tilted to the side in a silent question with its tongue lolling out of its mouth. "Jipp!"

Watching him warily, Garrick hurriedly whispered, "Yes, I know who you are and that you are searching for your godson. I propose a temporary truce for one hour. Swear on your magic not to attack or betray me and to follow my directions to keep both of us safe. I shall likewise swear not to attack you. I shall give you some information. We can negotiate later for details. Do you agree?"

"Whuff!" The dog stood up again, nodded his head and wagged his tail.

"So mote it be," stated Garrick. A second later, a faint glow surrounded the dog; his magic had accepted the truce, while Garrick's wand glowed also for a second.

"Wuff! Wuff!"

"Shut up! The Muggles are coming!" Garrick quickly cancelled the Disillusion charm so that the other wizard could see him temporarily and motioned with his hand towards the shadow he was standing in next to the garage, whispering, "Come here. Let's watch them together. That might answer some of your questions."

The form of the dog wavered and grew upwards. A moment later a tall, gaunt man with long, wavy black hair and a short beard, clad in a long sleeved shirt, a waistcoat and dark trousers was standing beside him, with a wand in his right hand.

"Who are you? Where is Harry? Is he alive?" Sirius whispered urgently, stepping closer to the other wizard, who was about his height. He thought he knew him from somewhere, although he couldn't place a name to the man's voice, face, or smell; not that he could make out the features in this low light. The bloke was not cloaked and masked like a Death Eater, but he might still be one – although he didn't act like Sirius expected one of Voldemort's minions to act.

"Shhh, later! Disillusion yourself, wait and watch!" hissed Garrick, because in that moment two persons entered the alleyway from the other side. He quickly tapped his own head and recast the charm, just in time to avoid detection. Next to him Black did the same. They were so close, he could feel the other's warmth and rapid, agitated breathing.

"Where is he, Piers?" sounded a deep, upset male voice, breathless and wheezy.

"Here Mr Dursley, he was lying on the ground, just a bit down the alleyway," answered a younger man's voice, frightened. "I told you, I've no clue what happened! Something's gone pear-shaped after we separated. He was perfectly fine when we left him."

Steps sounded, the two wizards waited. Garrick enhanced vision discerned two forms, one large, fat man, and a lanky teenager. He recognized them, Harry's uncle and a friend of Harry's cousin.

"Oh good Lord, Dudley!" cried the adult. He knelt down, to examine and shake the limp form on the ground. "Piers, was he like this before?"

"Bugger it! Yeah, he was just like this, completely spangled**,**" answered the younger man.

"Run, Piers, to the next house, call 999! After that, go straight away to our house and fetch my wife."

"Ok, on my way, guv."

Quick footsteps sounded, growing fainter, as Piers hurried away.

"Oh Dudley, Dudley, wake up! Blasted boy, that's your entire fault! Thrice damned Potter freak, you wait, when I get my hands on you! I'll kill you!" The fat man hugged his son to his chest, crying, sobbing and cursing Potter's name without restraint.

Garrick gently tugged at Sirius arm, breathing into his ear, "Come along. Let's go back a bit to talk."

They retreated quietly about 50 meters, where Garrick stopped, cancelling his Disillusiment charm and quickly brought up a Muggle repelling ward, plus a silencing barrier around them.

Sirius flinched, gripping his own wand firmly to defend himself, before he realized that the other wizard had only secured their privacy. Nevertheless he stayed on his guard, ready to cast a shield or stunner anytime. Because the stranger had demonstrated that he held to their truce so far, Sirius took the risk to become visible again too. He needed answers, now!

"What happened? Where is Harry? Is he all right, is he alive? Did you kidnap or hurt him? Who are you? Do you work for the Ministry or You-Know-Who?" Sirius fired off one question after the other, not able to contain himself anymore.

Garrick watched him calmly, wand at the ready but in a neutral stance, knowing he held all the cards in this game.

"That's a lot of questions, isn't it?"

Sirius spluttered and brandished his wand. "Tell me! You must tell me!"

Garrick raised an eyebrow and sneered. "I must? No Black, I don't have to tell you anything."

"But, but you – you proposed this truce! You promised not to attack me and give me information!"

"Ah, yes, I did, but I didn't say what kind of information, didn't I?" chuckled Garrick. Oh Salazar, it was such fun to rile up Gryffindors! "Remember that I already gave you information, that you might learn something by listening to those Muggles?"

Sirius growled almost like Padfoot, barely restraining himself from attacking the other wizard. That bastard must be a former Slytherin. Typical. Wait, didn't he look somewhat familiar? Was this man perhaps one of Snivellus' former gang of Slytherins, only fifteen to twenty years older? In that case he was most likely a Voldemort supporter or minion.

Regardless, Sirius desperately needed information about Harry; he was willing to offer almost anything in return for news. What did this slimy snake want? He took a deep breath and tried to calm down; screaming and threatening the dark blond man wouldn't help him to find Harry, the bastard could Disapparate any moment.

"Please, tell me at least if he is alive. What do you want in return? Ransom? How much?"

"No, no, I want information, same as you, Black. It depends on the quality and quantity you can offer, you see?" Garrick smirked at the agitated wizard. "And you must swear to inform no one, and I mean no one, about what I might reveal about Potter to you without my consent. And his permission, for that matter. You won't tell or write or otherwise disclose that you met me to Dumbledore or your Order or people otherwise associated with your group or Hogwarts or the Ministry, do you understand?"

Sirius stared at him, feeling bewildered and torn up. The dark blond wizard, clad in a normal, inconspicuous wizarding robe, with trousers and boots underneath as far as he could see, must be involved with You-Know-Who, the way he spoke of the Order and Dumbledore, because he knew about them! Or – was he one of Fudge's paranoid people? Or both? Oh Merlin. What to do? Harry. Harry was his godson, he needed to find and help him, regardless if Dumbledore would approve of this exchange or not. Wait, what had the man said?

"What do you mean with _his_ permission? Harry's or – or You-Know-Who's?" he queried nervously.

Garrick relished in Black's complete confusion. He didn't feel very charitable towards him, on the contrary. After being sorted into Gryffindor, Sirius Black had turned his back on his Dark wizard heritage; he'd run away from his family at age sixteen and allied himself with Dumbledore's people. While at school, he was the worst kind of arrogant bully together with James Potter and the other Marauders, targeting and tormenting Slytherins like Severus out of boredom and out of principle. After graduating from Hogwarts, Black had joined the Aurors to fight against his own people.

He was appointed godfather of Harry Potter, but so far he hadn't done his job at all. Yes, Black had been wrongfully imprisoned in Azkaban, but since two years he was out and about, doing what? Tonight he seemed to be very worried about the boy, but if he cared at all about Potter's mental and physical health, why hadn't he helped him before? How could a decent godfather leave his helpless charge in such an abusive Muggle household over the summers?

"My and Potter's permission of course, you imbecile!" he snapped at Black. "First of all you must agree, or I won't tell you anything, you sorry excuse for a wizard!" stated Garrick firmly, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Sirius bristled in anger, he wanted to curse this bastard into next week, but caved eventually. "All right. You'll get something worthwhile, of equal value from me in return, either information or a substantial favour to be called in later, sometime in the future. I promise to not reveal what you tell me to anyone without your consent and Harry's. I swear this on my magic and give you my word as the Black Head of house. Do you accept?"

Garrick nodded. "So mote it be."

Sirius repeated the confirmation, and again a short tingle and glow of magic surrounded both their wand hands and wands.

"And? Spit it out! Is he still alive and all right? Where is Harry? What is going on here? Why was that Muggle talking about Harry that way? Who the fuck are you? For whom do you work?" inquired Sirius, fidgeting with impatience, anxiety and restlessness. He wanted to do something, not mince words like this! What if Harry was dead, and he had promised a potential Death Eater or Ministry sycophant a favour for nothing?

Garrick pondered on how much to reveal and what to ask in return. "The last time I saw him, Harry Potter was alive," he stated.

Sirius blanched, his stomach felt as if it had dropped to his knees. He whispered, "How long ago?" dreading the answer.

"About half an hour, maybe twenty minutes ago," replied Garrick.

"Where? Is he in danger?"

"Where I cannot tell you, but Potter was safe, not in danger anymore. He was not well at all, but better than before."

"Thank Merlin," sighed Sirius, feeling relieved for a moment, only to jump to the next alarming question. "Why can't you tell me where he is? What do you mean with 'he was not well at all'? So he is injured? Who hurt him? Did you or that other man kidnap and torture him or does You-Know-Who have him?" he called out, feeling his heart constrict from worry and panic, his mind conjuring up scenarios of torture, blood, gore and pain.

"Stop!" interrupted Garrick, touching the distraught man's arm for a moment. Sirius shook the other's hand of angrily. "Calm down Black! I assure you, the boy is quite safe. Or at least he was, when I last saw him. He is being healed and getting potions, food and water as we speak. I can't tell you where he is for several reasons; one is that Potter doesn't want that old coot or your stupid Order to know."

Sirius stared at him disbelievingly and only moderately reassured. "What! That's - I don't understand. Why wouldn't Harry want us to know where he is? Why did he leave the only place where he is safe? What about that Dementor? And, who are you? How do you know Harry and what happened tonight?"

"Fool!" Garrick scoffed when he heard Sirius speak about the supposed only place of safety. "That I can't answer at present. Ask something else."

Sirius frowned and thought a moment about what was most important. He couldn't trust this Slytherin bastard. But he needed him, this wizard was his only connection to Harry, so he responded, "Ok. Do you swear on your magic that it's true that Harry was in danger this evening, but now he is safe as far as you know and someone is looking after him?"

Garrick nodded solemnly, raising his wand. "I do speak the truth, and he is in good hands." A brief tingling glow of magic confirmed his statement, before he posed a question of his own. "So, tell me Black, what do you know about the occurrences of this evening? And, are more members of your Order in the vicinity?"

Sirius huffed, racking his hand through his dark hair and pushing the long locks back, before replying, "Not much. I mean I don't know much, and I'm expecting more Order members to turn up here any minute. As far as I know Harry simply vanished this evening. I followed his trail, his footsteps to and from that Muggle park. I believe he was injured, because I smelled blood, but I don't know how or why. I found out that you and another man followed Harry from the park all the way to this very alleyway. I have heard from someone else that a Dementor was here earlier."

Garrick looked at him, measuring Sirius sincerity and intentions. "That is all you now? Honestly?"

"Yes," confirmed Sirius, before asking, "Is that Dementor the reason why that Muggle boy is lying on the ground over there? Did You-Know-Who command this attack?"

"I believe it is," replied Garrick. "The Dark Lord is definitely not responsible for the Dementor attack on Potter and his cousin."

"Oh. But – then, how come a Dementor was here at all?"

"Excellent question, Black. I don't know, either," said Garrick. "What do you know about the past four weeks?"

Sirius frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Potter was sent to his Muggle relatives after the end of school, about four weeks ago, wasn't he?"

"Yes," answered Sirius cautiously.

"Did you have contact with your godson? Did you visit him? Did you write letters to him?" Garrick grilled him, his eyes flashing in anger. "What did he do, how did he spend his time? How were his living conditions? Who decided that Potter had to stay here? Did you send him here because you didn't want him around?"

Sirius opened and closed his mouth in a good gold fish impersonation. "What? No! I won't answer, that's private, not your business."

"Sure it's my business! Do you recognize those Muggles?" Garrick pointed in the direction of Wisteria Walk. "The fat man, the body on the ground and the other thinner boy who was send to call for help?"

"No. Well, I heard the names, so they must be Harry's uncle and his cousin. I don't care about them. What I want to know is what happened to Harry? If he is out of danger as you say, then why is he not in safety at his relative's house as he should be?"

Garrick was astonished, no, he was floored. Harry Potter's godfather didn't recognize the boy's relatives and a good friend of his cousin, one of his gang, the very people who tormented Potter regularly? Black thought Potter should be at his relatives? Didn't he realize that _they_ endangered the boy?

"Black, you don't - I, I can't believe this!" Garrick fumed. "Either you are completely clueless, or you are one of the best liars I've ever met! Don't you know anything at all? Honestly Black. What kind of godfather are you?"

"What? What do you mean? I haven't lied to you!" Sirius exclaimed.

In the distance a Muggle car horn sounded. They heard a kind of caterwauling, that grew in intensity, and voices too.

Garrick and Sirius looked into the direction of Wisteria Walk.

"Black, our times is almost up, the Muggles are coming," retorted Garrick.

"No, don't go, please, tell me more about Harry! I want to help him!" implored Sirius.

"Do you? I find that very hard to believe. Why do you suddenly act as if you care?" retorted Garrick, his voice sharp in anger.

In his mind, he beheld the malnourished body of Potter in the Dark Lord's study, sitting naked on the floor, covered in wounds, scars and bruises, small and ashamed, and requesting sanctuary from his mortal enemy. He recalled the teenager's raspy voice begging Malfoy in this same alleyway to rescue him, sounding so lonely and frantic.

"Of course I care! Harry is James' son, my best friend's son!" Sirius retorted in indignation, puffing up his chest and crossing his arms in front in a defensive stance reflexively.

"Indeed, he is. It's high time you remember that," Garrick said bitterly. Sirius blinked in confusion.

"You should have looked after him, Black. Why haven't you removed Potter from that Muggle scum's house, if you care about him as you say?" accused Garrick scathingly. "I'd very much like to curse the shit out of you on his behalf, you know that?" A few red sparks shot out of his wand, which he held in a death grip at his side, point downwards, to stop himself from breaking their truce.

His arms dropping to his sides like loose cables, Sirius stared gob-smacked at the angry face of the dark blond wizard. The caterwauling and the sound of voice grew louder. Several shadowy forms moved at the other end of the alley. Garrick turned and began to walk toward the Muggles.

Sirius hurried after him, exclaiming, "What? Why do you say that? I wanted to, but Dumbledore insisted that Harry had to stay there." He raised his hands and shoulders in a helpless gesture, "Please. Please, what's going on? What are you talking about?"

"Have you ever met those filthy Muggles in person? Have you watched that house, number four Privet Drive up close or visited Potter over the past four weeks? Or last summer?" inquired Garrick impatiently over his shoulder.

"How do you – ? N-no, no, I haven't, never," stammered Sirius.

"Why not?"

"Because – ." Sirius hesitated. He couldn't, he shouldn't tell Order secrets. But this dark wizard seemed to know everything already. "Because Dumbledore said it's better this way. You must know I'm – "

"A fugitive, yes. But are you a wizard or not? Has Azkaban completely rotted your wits?" Garrick sneered, "I must go. If you really care for that poor boy, than use your dog form, your instincts. Watch and listen! And think about what you learn. Stop trusting Dumbledore. Now hush, disguise yourself." With that, he dismantled the charms around them and disillusioned himself again, walking quickly, but soundlessly towards the commotion at the other end of the alleyway.

Sirius stood rooted to the ground, completely confused and bewildered, mulling over this weird conversation. What did that bastard of a Slytherin – for Sirius firmly believed he was one - talk about? What had happened at Privet Drive during the past weeks and this evening? None of the Order members on guard had ever reported anything unusual; no Death Eaters had been sighted.

Sirius knew from the few times he had spoken to Harry in the past year and from the few letters they had exchanged that Harry didn't like to be in the Muggle world. But what this wizard said, it sounded almost as if – as if there was something really bad going on. Something he, as Harry's godfather should know about, some harm done to Harry that he should have prevented. 'Use your dog form. Stop trusting Dumbledore.' What kind of advice was that?! Why did the man use the specific words 'that poor boy'? Why would a dark wizard, a Slytherin, a probable Death Eater, pity Harry or care for him? Why would this man be angry on Harry's behalf at Sirius? It made no sense at all.

And what was happening over there with the Muggles? He morphed quickly into his Padfoot form and jogged towards the group of people bustling about the boy's limp body on the ground. Sirius crouched down in the shadows besides a garage; he didn't think one of the Muggles would notice a black dog.

A large yellow Muggle car had arrived; it was easy to make out because of the bright colour and all the blinking lights, blue, yellow and red. The rear doors were thrown open wide, inside it was white and brightly lit. Thankfully the shrill caterwauling had stopped; it must be a kind of Muggle alarm.

Two men in the same bright vests knelt next to the body and seemed to examine him. One of them pressed some mask like contraception onto the pale face of the fat boy lying on his back. They were talking rapidly. Sirius caught some words. "No response," followed by "Oxygen," and "Comatose." Sirius assumed they were Muggle healers. Then they carefully lifted the body onto a stretcher and slowly carried him towards the vehicle.

A whole crowd of other Muggles was standing a few paces away and gawked, whispering between themselves. The large fat man, Harry's uncle, was talking loudly with one of the presumed healers, gesticulating wildly with his hands.

"What do you mean, you can't tell what's wrong?" he blustered.

"Mr Dursley, as I said, we must bring him to the hospital, there the doctor on duty will further examine the patient," the healer answered.

"You must help him, Dudley is my only son!" The fat man insisted.

"Yes Mr Dursley, of course. We will do all we can. Please sir, would you fill out this form with his name, your contact information like name and address, telephone number, to speed up the process at the hospital?"

"Yes, sure. Just go, help my son."

The fat man started writing something, while the two presumed healers turned to the back of the vehicle and busied themselves with the prone body inside.

The crowd quieted suddenly and parted, as a thin, horse faced woman pushed through. She repeatedly screamed," Dudley! Vernon!" as she ran toward the fat man and the ambulance vehicle. Her shrill voice was hurting Sirius' sensitive ears.

"Dudley! Where is he? What happened?" she shrieked.

"Petunia, Dudley is hurt, kind of awake but unconscious, he doesn't react," explained Mr Dursley.

"Oh, my poor Popkin!" cried the woman, wringing her hands and looking franticly around. The crowd stared at her, prying, eager to witness more drama. Someone sniggered nastily in the background. Only very few women were sympathetic to the Dursley's distress.

One of the presumed Muggle healers, a slender black haired, dark skinned man, came over to them, while the other man closed the doors of the vehicle with a resounding _Bang_.

"Good evening, I'm paramedic Ian Thomas from the Surrey emergency ambulance service," he said briskly. "Madam, please calm down. Are you Mrs Dursley, the mother of the patient?"

"Yes, yes, I am. Where is he?" said Mrs Dursley, tears streaming over her face. She was clutching the arm of the fat man, as if she would break down any minute.

"Your son is in the ambulance, we are about to drive to the hospital," Mr Thomas explained. "Mr Dursley, do you and your wife have a car to follow us? Do you know the way to Ashford Hospital on London Road, A 30?"

"Yes, of course, we will fetch my car and come at once," responded Mr Dursley.

"Good. Please remember to pack an overnight bag for your son, you know, pyjamas, slippers, bathrobe, a towel and the like. Leave your car in the parking lot opposite of Tesco's and go to main entrance, ask for directions at the main reception. Bye."

Paramedic Thomas nodded at the distraught couple. Having done his duty he turned his back on them and strode to the door of the large yellow vehicle. The other man who was already sitting inside started the engine, while speaking into a small device he held close to his mouth.

"All right, thank you," said Mr Dursley, taking the elbow of his wife and tugged to lead her away.

"Thank you, sir!" called Mrs Dursley, waving after the man, who didn't bother to glance at her anymore. As soon as he had climbed inside, the vehicle backed slowly out of the alleyway's entrance, turned and sped down the street, blaring the horrible caterwauling alarm again and flashing a blue light on top. Sirius winced. Ouch, his poor sensitive ears!

The Dursleys began to walk as quickly as they could down Wisteria Walk towards Privet Drive, and the crowd of nosy neighbours dissipated, now that the show was over. Sirius had noticed Arabella Figg standing amongst them; she was slowly ambling away like the other people, gossiping with another elderly woman. He hesitated a moment where to go next, when he picked up the scent of the presumed Death Eater who was following the Dursleys, apparently still disillusioned. Sirius ran after him at once, partly out of curiosity, partly out of a vague sense of duty.

After a short while, he was beside the wizard and in hearing range of the Dursleys, who were walking very close together, whispering fiercely to each other, obviously in the middle of a heated argument.

"Vernon, you're sure Dudley is still alive?" asked Mrs Dursley.

"Yes," replied Mr Dursley, "but not really alive, his eyes were open, glassy, horrible, he stared into nothing. He didn't react like a normal person would if asleep. The paramedic said something about Dudley being completely unconscious, comatose."

"Oh, my, how dreadful! My poor baby!" wailed Mrs Dursley.

"This must be the freak's fault! Ungrateful, unnatural waste of space, I've had enough of this!" raged Mr Dursley. "Every year, every single year something horrible happens over the summer. That boy attracts trouble like honey attracts flies. Remember how last year our living room was ruined and Dudley nearly suffocated because of his friends, those disgusting ginger fiends? I simply will not tolerate this any more; I want him gone, out of our home! Potter," Dursley spat the name out like the foulest swearword, "better gets a move, 'cause if I get my hands on him, I'll kill him!"

"You're right Vernon, this has gone too far," said Mrs Dursley, sounding equally furious and determined. "That snake attack at the Zoo was murderous. The pig's tail was so humiliating. The Masons still haven't forgiven us, that prank cost us our well-deserved vacation home on Majorca. Then he blew up your sister and now our poor Diddydums might die, again! I really thought we could cure that dreadful boy, I know you tried your utmost to beat sense into him. It seems impossible, despite our best efforts. No, he must leave. Did you see him somewhere? Did Piers watch him do something to Dudley?" she asked her husband.

"No," responded Mr Dursley, "I haven't see him after that disturbance right at the end of the evening news, and Piers said that the boys separated back on Magnolia Crescent, there was no one else around when he saw Dudley for the last time."

"That means nothing," hissed the horse-faced woman, "that nasty boy could have hidden in the alleyway behind a garage, ready to attack poor Diddy from behind."

"Oh yes, of course. As soon as we're home, I'll get all of the freaks stuff and set it outside in front of the garage. When he comes back, he'll see he isn't welcome here any more."

Mrs Dursley nodded. "I'll pack a suitcase for Dudley, and also some of his games and some sweets for when he wakes up. I refuse to give up hope; no he will wake up again. Our Dudley is a strong boy, he will pull thorough," said Mrs Dursley, sounding confidently.

"Pet, do we - I mean, can we, can you do something about the freak, so that he cannot come back?" inquired the fat man carefully. "So that that old crackpot cannot force us to take him in again? Is there any way to make sure we are rid of him for good? I can't stand him!"

The woman stalked in silence for a few steps, before squaring her shoulders and answering assertive, with quiet menace, "Yes. Yes, I know just what I'll do. I should have done that years and years ago! You were always right Vernon; we should have dropped the brat off in the next orphanage, or drowned him right away in the river on that godforsaken morning when I found him on our doorstep."

Her husband looked at her, but she didn't say anything further until they had reached their house and rushed inside.

Sirius had slowed down and increased the distance to the two Muggles. He moved on autopilot, and finally sat down on his haunches on the pavement, he was so utterly shocked by what he had overheard. He couldn't grasp all the facts, but one thing was clear: these Muggles despised Harry, blaming him for a number of incidents Sirius had no knowledge of – but they firmly believed Harry to have caused their son harm today and in the past, and Mr Dursleys sister, too. Mrs Dursley had spoken about curing Harry, from what? Did they think they could beat the magic out of him?

Oh dear Merlin, he'd had no idea. Sirius's head was spinning. Was this – was this what that dark wizard went on about earlier, why he became so upset, so furious? Why hadn't Harry told anyone, if his relatives treated him so badly?

The woman, Mrs Dursley, spoke so contemptuously about leaving Harry at an orphanage or – or drowning him? Sirius wasn't sure he had correctly understood that last part. Was that possible that his relatives loathed and hated Harry so much?

And – what did she mean with 'found him on our doorstep'?

Surely Dumbledore had introduced little Harry to the Dursleys and carefully explained everything to them on that night, or the next morning? Hagrid had told Sirius that he had orders from Dumbledore to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. Sirius remembered that night James and Lily were murdered very clearly. He'd relived it countless times for twelve long years in Azkaban. Hagrid wouldn't have left a freshly orphaned and injured, traumatized toddler outside a Muggle front door in the middle of the cold night, would he?

Sirius nearly choked on his own saliva, his throat felt so tight. He didn't want to believe this. He felt as if someone had pulled the rug out under him, and as if a troll had punched him in the guts, literally.

Suddenly a car sped past him and honked. Sirius didn't notice a thing.

"Black. Black!"

Sirius was abruptly brought back into the present by the low, but sharp voice of the other wizard, combined with a nudge and then a pull at the fur of his neck towards the Dursley's house, away from the street lamp. Completely out of it, he followed the pull into the garden until they were at the side of the house, hidden in shadows, again.

Sirius didn't consider that the man very well might be a Death Eater, out to kill him as soon as their hour of truce was up. His shock over the reality of Harry's so called family; his supposed safe home in the Muggle world overshadowed everything else.

After transforming back into his human body, he whispered, "Did you hear what I heard? They blame Harry and want to kick him out, they despise and hate him? It sounds like they did beat him in the past? Is that what you were talking about earlier? I can't believe this!"

Garrick stayed disillusioned, but whispered back, "Yes, I heard, and yes, that's what I meant. Those blasted Muggles. Outrageous! Do you still insist that you didn't know anything?"

"No!" stated Sirius emphatically. "I had no idea! I thought Harry was well cared for here, not loved like a son, but safe. I knew he didn't like his relatives, and the younger Weasley boys said these Muggles were gits. Well, I thought Harry is a teenager, you know, it's quite normal during puberty to disagree with adults, like ones parents, guardians or teachers. Dumbledore always says that this is the only place where Harry is safe from You-Know-Who, so he must spend his summer with his relatives."

"Pah!" scoffed Garrick.

"I – I believed him. I gave Harry up to Hagrid that night, Halloween '81, to be brought here. And that, that vile Muggle woman, she said she found him on her doorstep! She talked about drowning him!" muttered Sirius, torn up and dismayed. "Oh Merlin and Morgana, what have I done? Why hasn't Harry _spoken_, why didn't he say or write it was _this_ bad?" Sirius's voice broke, he cradled his head in his hands, wiping away a few tears and pulling at his hair distressed.

"Hush!" hissed Garrick. "Get a grip, Black. Maybe nobody believed him? Or he didn't dare to say something? Who would believe this is the way the famous Boy Who Lived grew up? I was so shocked myself when I found out." He paused for a moment, before stating, "What's done is done. Look forward. Stop trusting Dumbledore. Question everything you have been told or experienced in the past twenty five years."

"But – but, I can't," said Sirius, confused and helpless. "I'm a Gryffindor, James Potter was my best friend. Dumbledore, he's Dumbledore! The Light side is the good, the right side. Pure-blood supremacists are wrong. You-Know-Who is evil."

"Idiotic sucker!" the other wizard jeered. "I don't have time for a philosophical discussion. You can do something. Observe carefully how they act when your fellow Order members or the Headmaster come here. Where are they, by the way?"

"I've no idea what's taking them so long," replied Sirius, disturbed that he said that at all – he was talking way to open with this wizard, but he owed him so much. Without their temporary truce and discussion, without the information about Harry and watching the Dursleys, he would be still running around Little Whinging clueless. Now he was shocked and confused, but at least he knew something of what had happened to Harry.

"Shhh, conceal yourself, and watch!" Garrick hissed.

Sirius quickly tapped his head, disillusioning himself and looked around the corner of the house. The Muggles were coming out of the front door again. Mrs Dursley carried a suitcase and put it into the boot of the car standing in the driveway. Mr Dursley pulled a heavy trunk and dropped it at the side of the garden wall, setting an empty bird cage on top of it.

"That's all?" asked Mrs Dursley.

"Yes, I dumped everything what was in his room and the cupboard of him into the trunk. The blasted owl is gone, thankfully."

"Did you look under his bed?" asked Mrs Dursley.

"No, why?" retorted her husband.

Mrs Dursley huffed. "I believe he hides things under his bed. Put everything in a bin bag and bring it out."

Mr Dursley nodded and rushed away. Sirius could hear and feel him storming inside the house and stomping up the stairs. A few minutes later the fat man came back, with a black plastic bag in his hand.

"You were right Pet, there was stuff underneath a loose floorboard. So, this is the rest." He opened the lid of the trunk halfway and stuffed the bin bag inside with some difficulty, while commenting, "I'd really like to burn everything he owns, and give him a trashing he shall never forget, when he dares to show his face here again."

Mrs Dursley shook her head. "No Vernon. These freaks are dangerous. We don't know what is all in his trunk. It might explode and blow up the whole road! And we don't know when he'll come back. It's late at night, we must drive to the hospital now. Dudley needs us! Let's just get rid of that worthless boy for good. "

"All right Petunia. What do you have in mind?" inquired Mr Dursley.

"I wrote a letter to the freak and that crazy headmaster of that", her voice dripped of contempt, "school, I shall leave it here in that bird cage. I'm sure either the boy or one of his disgusting friends will find it." She showed him a piece of paper.

She leaned over the bonnet of their car and wrote something more on the letter with a flourish. After a moment of hesitation, she routed around in her purse and pulled something small, metallic out, that Sirius could not clearly see. Her husband avidly watched her.

"What are you doing!" the fat man exclaimed, sounding frightened and concerned.

"Making sure that they understand how serious we are. Good riddance to the freak!" With these words, Petunia Dursley pricked her left forefinger with the sharp point of a small nail scissor, so that a drop of blood fell down onto the letter right over her signature.

Sirius and Garrick felt a magical disturbance around them. Something was changing. They looked at each other, although they couldn't see anything except a blurred outline. Sirius whispered, "Merlin. The wards! She's bringing down the protective wards."

"Not that they did much protecting," Garrick whispered back.

"What did you write? Why sign with your blood like a heathen? Is that - is that what they would do?" Mr Dursley asked, sounding scarred by her behaviour, as his wife put away the scissor and folded the letter before turning to her husband, standing to her full height as if she was speaking in front of a large audience, brandishing the letter like a weapon.

"I wrote that we want our normal life back and nothing to do at all with their world. That we won't tolerate Harry Potter anymore," she declared in an emotional voice, which grew in power and volume while she spoke. "Harry Potter cannot call this house, number four, Privet Drive, Little Winging, Surrey in England his home any more from this moment forthwith."

"Yes, very good, Petunia! Out with him!" agreed Mr Dursley whole-heartedly.

"I wrote even more. That I renounce kinship with Harry Potter. I have no sister and he isn't my nephew. He was never a part of this family, and he shall never be! I confirmed it with my blood, that he is not of my blood, so there is no doubt I mean it." Mrs Dursley ended triumphantly, stepping to the trunk and putting the letter into the empty owl cage standing on top.

Sirius and Garrick felt the blood wards around number four, Privet Drive crumbling, leaving a strangely empty feeling inside of them as the magic disintegrated and dissipated around the property.

In the next second, an owl shot towards them, briefly visible in the light from the street lamp and above the front door of number four, dropping a red envelope right on top of Mrs Dursley, before it whirred around and vanished into nothingness again. She shrieked and jumped back.

Mr Dursley cursed loudly. The letter lay on the cleanly swept stones of the drive way. Mrs Dursley stepped back some more. It started to smoke before bursting into flames.

A booming, terrible voice called out, "Remember my last, Petunia!"

"Too late! Leave me and my family alone!" she shrieked back, for once not caring what her neighbours might think. Petunia Dursley turned around and opened the door to the passenger seat. "Come, Vernon. Dudley is waiting for us."

Vernon Dursley stared at his wife, as if he had seen her for the first time. He seemed to be almost afraid of her, but he quickly got into the car, started the engine, pulled back and drove down the road.

Sirius let out a breath. "Wow."

"Sure that that harpy is a Muggle, no squib? I doubt that after this display!" said Garrick. He quickly walked over to the stack of Harry's belongings and began to shrink them. "Who do you think that howler was from?" he asked casually, while pocketing the shrunken trunk and owl cage before Sirius could take notice.

"Huh? What? Oh, the howler. I'm not sure, but well, my guess is Dumbledore," retorted Sirius. He felt overwhelmed, confused, terrified and so helpless. Harry was gone, Merlin knows where, his cousin had been kissed by a Dementor, and his aunt had thrown him out and brought down the wards that had been the very reason that Harry had to spend fourteen unhappy years here. The wards were no more, which meant there was no protection from Voldemort anymore. He looked around, where was the other wizard? Dratted, he thought, he's still invisible.

"What – what about Harry?" Sirius spoke into thin air, despair and hopelessness in his voice. "Will he, will You-Know-Who kill Harry now?"

A chuckle answered him. "No idea. Good bye, until next time."

"No! Please, wait!" Sirius called out.

"Black, I must go, things to do, orders to follow, you know?" Garrick's voice was laden with mirth and sarcasm. "We can't all laze around like certain mutts."

"I don't laze around!" Sirius cried out indignantly, before asking beseechingly, "Please, will you see Harry tomorrow?"

"I don't know, I can't promise that," the former Slytherin replied with caution.

"Oh. Can you deliver a message, a letter to him?" Sirius wanted to know.

"The same, I can try, but I can't promise you he'll get it."

Sirius walked to the drive way, where he had heard the wizard's voice answering him from. Looking around, he noticed that Harry's luggage was gone. "His trunk, did you – of course you did. Will you give him his things?" he asked hopefully.

"Again, I plan to, I'll try, but I don't know if he'll receive it or not," retorted Garrick. After a moment of fighting with himself, he added, "Black, I don't know if – if Potter is still alive. I think he's all right, but you must understand that things could have happened in the meantime that I have neither control over, nor knowledge of."

"I see," said Sirius, crushed. He fumbled for words, feeling lost. "Thank – thank you for being so, so honest. Please, if you can, if you find an opportunity, please tell him I love him, OK?"

"All right. Anything else?" Garrick sneered, exasperated by this emotional Gryffindor and himself, for going soft because of the memory of expressive green eyes and how grateful that broken boy had been for their help.

"Tell Harry that I had no idea, of nothing," Sirius choked out, feeling as if his mouth, throat, lungs and stomach were full of ash. "I failed him; I failed James and Lily, again. I'm so very sorry. I – I don't know what I'll do, but I want to help him, to make it up to him."

"OK, I'll do that," assured Garrick. "Not for you, but for the boy."

"Thanks," Sirius said appreciatively. He felt so lost and useless. "What now?"

"If you truly want to help Potter," Garrick advised, "stay inconspicuous and alert, and stop thinking of the Light and Gryffindor as good and the Dark and Slytherin as evil. The real world is much more complicated than school yard bullying. Think about what you learned this evening; re-evaluate what you believe in and whom you trust."

Sirius swallowed and cleared his throat. "Yes, thank you for your advice. I'm deeply indebted to you, I will not forget. I've never said something like this to a Slytherin. This is all so very confusing; my whole world is being turned upside down. It'll take some time for me to sort through it all."

"Hmm. You could do me a favour in return," purred Garrick. "For example, you wouldn't know the Order of the Phoenix headquarters' address by chance?"

Sirius inhaled sharply. "So, you are one of Voldemort's minions, I thought so. No, I can't. I'm not the secret keeper. And I wouldn't tell you, if I could."

"Ah, of course. Very well, now remember not to give away too much of what you discovered tonight," cautioned Garrick. "Best tell the Headmaster right away about what you witnessed in that alleyway, how Dudley Dursley was found and transported away to a Muggle hospital, because that old Kneazle lady will tell him the same. And you should tell him that you followed the adult Dursleys here and what they said and did. You were so distraught and shocked that you didn't notice what became of Potters things, all right? I recommend that you take a close look in both your forms at their house, inside and out, scan for body fluids."

Sirius gaped for a second, before he shut his mouth with an audible click. "Yes, yes, I'll do that. But how come you know of Arabella?" he blurted out.

Garrick rolled his eyes in annoyance, which Black couldn't see of course. "In contrast to your fellow Order members, I took my task of watching this house seriously, so I noticed what was going on and who was in the vicinity."

"Oh, right, I should be used to this by now. Although I don't understand at all how or why you could find and approach this house," muttered Sirius, before saying, "You cannot give me Harry's current address either, I suppose? I'd really like to speak with him in person as soon as possible."

"No, definitely not," Garrick retorted. "As I already explained, Potter doesn't want the Headmaster to know where he is. He said he fears that for one the person who currently shelters him will get in trouble and secondly that Dumbledore would force him back to Privet Drive. After what you experienced tonight, you understand Potter's concern, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," Sirius agreed. "Although I cannot believe it. I cannot imagine that Dumbledore is aware of how bad the situation with the Muggles is or was. He wouldn't have left Harry in their care if he knew they hurt him. You said earlier that Harry was being healed and given potions. Was he in such a bad shape? Did his uncle beat him so much? I did smell blood."

"Indeed," replied Garrick, keeping the comment lying on his tongue about Dumbledore ruthlessly using people as pawns back. "Believe me, that boy was in a terrible shape when we rescued him. His uncle almost killed him earlier this evening. Potter escaped, but then the Dementors turned up. The cousin and his gang are responsible for considerable damage too. Potter said an hour ago he'd rather die by the Dark Lord's hand, than go back here. He was convinced his uncle would murder him on sight, if the cousin had suffered the Dementor's kiss."

Hearing this, Sirius nearly choked, feeling his insides turning from ash to lead and his heart thump in his throat. "That bad? How horrible, oh no!" he exclaimed agitated. "Why didn't anybody take notice? Why didn't Harry write me that he was so abused? And – and you and that other wizard, who followed Harry from the play park tonight, you saved his life? Wait, you said Dementors, as in more than one?"

"Yes we did, and there were at least two Dementors," Garrick corroborated. "So Black, I really must take my leave. You shouldn't have any problems to play the concerned godfather, frantic with worry. Take care not to break your vow. Dumbledore is a Legilimens, don't look him in the eyes if you cannot occlude properly."

"Yes, all right, thanks. Won't you tell me your name?" Sirius asked. He had so many more questions. And what of his debt? How to pay that back?

"No. See you, Black."

With a _Crack_, Garrick Disapparated away from Little Whinging. His next destination was in London, he needed to wake up his reporter contact post haste.

Sirius sighed, and set out to follow the advice he'd been given He had to admit, this bastard of a Death Eater was clever and not such a bastard at all. He didn't know what he should think of this encounter. Did the other wizard really speak the truth?

After finishing Hogwarts, when he trained to become an Auror, Sirius had learned to observe a crime scene and watch for clues, so he walked around the Dursley's house twice to get a feel for the property. Everything looked well-tended, clean, meticulous, too much. It was unnatural.

He went to the back door and silently cast Alohomora. Slipping inside he found himself in a very ordinary Muggle house. It was so clean and tidy it felt completely sterile, artificial.

In the hallway and sitting room he found numerous family photos of the Dursleys, but not one photo depicting Harry or his parents, and none of Lily and her sister as children or teenagers.

Sirius examined the ground floor and the first floor first as a wizard, and again as a dog. After he was finished, he was shaking with rage and feeling nauseated at the same time. He had discovered the cupboard under the stairs, and the room upstairs that was obviously used by Harry during the past summers. He couldn't bring himself to call this small, hot, stuffy, prison cell Harry's bedroom, with old, threadbare or broken furniture, bars in front the window and several locks on the outside of the door.

To Padfoot, the room reeked, it stank, there was no other word, of sickness and depravity, of old and new blood, sweat, vomit, piss and spunk. In the cupboard the same rotten smell had lingered, only very faint, years old. He couldn't stand the odour that assaulted his sensitive canine nose anymore and changed back to a man, trying not to gag and break down when his imagination showed him one horrible scenario after the other of Harry's probable suffering. Scanning spells highlighted droplets and scattered smears of blood and other bodily fluids on the bed, floor, desk, desk chair, wardrobe, windowsill and the walls.

A sequence of questions repeated itself endlessly in his aching, overcrowded mind. Why in Merlin's name hadn't anyone taken notice? Why hadn't Harry told him or his friends? And did the Headmaster and Harry's Head of house, Minerva McGonagall know of this, or not?

Sirius couldn't follow this train of thought further, because if someone else had taken notice, had suspected or known, or if the Headmaster had known of the neglect and abuse, what did that mean that they had left Harry to grow up here, to suffer like he did? And, what about how Harry had arrived here? Had Hagrid really just left him here on the doorstep on that November night?

There had to be another explanation, some mistake. Sirius just couldn't imagine that the venerable Headmaster or people like Poppy, Hagrid or the Weasleys would knowingly subject James' son, Harry Potter, the precious Boy Who Lived, to such danger and suffering. He remembered well how the Headmaster or Professor McGonagall had always supported the Gryffindors at school. They had favoured James and Sirius, they tolerated the pranks of the Marauders as boyish exuberance.

Sirius conveniently forgot that a Slytherin being treated unfairly hadn't interested the Headmaster or the teachers a rat's arse.

Several popping sounds outside caught his attention. Looking out of the window, he recognized the dark shapes milling about on the front lawn and the driveway as Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks, Arthur and Remus.

Taking several deep breaths, he did his utmost to center himself, push the horror, bewilderment and rage down and prepare a good story in his mind, before he went downstairs to greet his Order colleagues.

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><p>AN-2: I did some small edits to this chapter and others because of very observant readers. I hope I have caught all the errors now? Thanks especially to the Brit-pickers ;-) Rach and BloodyRose90!<p>

For those of you who like more info:  
>On my profile is a Link to the wonderful online HP-Lexicon, where you can read the Essay about where Little Whinging might be located "In Search of Little Whinging" and the Map of Little Whinging and Privet Drive.<p>

Also interesting is the research by Whitehound of the real life places (and the people) that inspired JKR, or the ideas of Whitehound where for example Hogwarts might be located in Scotland, or where Azkaban is, if it were 'real'.  
>On the profile u889650/whitehound you will find the link to that, including a fine Britpick guide. After all, people like me need all the help they can get ;-) to not write total crap.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer, Warnings see chapter 1.

As always, a big thank you to all my readers for your reviews, and adding my story to your C2, Alerts or Favs. **  
><strong>**Edit**: At the end of this chapter is now another AN, authors note, in answer to the many questions about Arabella, Mundungus, Dumbledore, Vernon, the Tracking charm, Malfoy Manor and my timeline by anonymous reviewer paili-chan.

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><p>LocationTimeline: We are now back at Malfoy Manor, in continuation of chapters 9 and 10.

* * *

><p>Entering the drawing room, Lucius found the boy sitting on the rug to the side of one of the sofas, with Nagini slithering all over the sofa nearest to him. Her upper body was stretched out along the arm- and backrest on the left of Potter, with her head moving towards him until she was close to his ear. She hissed something. Potter looked doubtfully towards her, before he followed Lucius' progress across the room toward him attentively.<p>

When Lucius sat down on the adjoining sofa – the one without the snake - he wondered about the boy's position.

"Potter, why are you sitting on the rug?" Lucius asked irritated, while he levitated the tray and the casket with the potions to the side table.

"Uhm, so-rry si-hr," Harry replied haltingly in a still raspy voice, peering up shyly through his dark fringe. "Ih didn't know ihf Ih had pehr-mi-ssi-on. Nag-hini sahys I cahn siht on the settee?"

Lucius was taken aback. What did Potter think, that he wasn't allowed to sit on the furniture like some stray, filthy dog?

"Of course you may sit on the sofa. Get up, come here." He patted the seat next to him.

Harry moved slowly and gingerly sat down, clutching the blanket around him, clearly nervous and more afraid than before. His emerald eyes darted wary glances at the lean, blond wizard sitting in arms reach.

"Calm down, Potter," Lucius said as soothing as he could, remembering how Draco had reacted many years ago after his worst fall from his broom, waking up injured and disoriented. "I'm here to heal you, remember?"

"Yes, si-hr." The boy watched him guardedly.

"So, I'll start with mending all those broken or cracked bones. You will feel pain for a short moment and a stinging or tingling sensation like before, when the damage starts to heal. In a minute you can drink another pain reliever and other potions."

He waited a moment for Potter to show that he had understood by nodding. Lucius started with whispering a string of, "Episkey," moving his wand slowly over the young man's body from the head downward. Of course he could cast this silently, but he felt Potter would appreciate to hear what was cast on him out loud.

Potter winced when the healing charm started to work and his bones and tendons righted themselves, sometimes with low crunching noises or snaps. He swallowed, his lips pressed together tightly, but he didn't utter a sound and held perfectly still.

Finally the boy relaxed, he dared to look up again at Lucius' face, who smiled encouragingly, before he turned to the casket with the healing potions on the side table. Picking up two small vials with one hand, he held them in front of the boy so that Potter could see them. Additionally, he held up a glass of water with his other hand. "Drink, you'll feel better soon."

Potter narrowed his eyes to better focus on the vials.

"Wound- Cleansing and Bone-Mending potion, what you need most at the moment," Lucius explained. "To heal properly, you'll need to take several other potions tonight and over the next week. There is internal bruising which will take some time to heal. Luckily that broken rib hasn't moved, or you would be in serious trouble. A punctured lung is dangerous."

Potter shrugged with one shoulder, as if that wasn't anything special – or he'd had it all before - and drank the potions after checking the colour and reading the label on the vials.

"Snap-hes pho-chions," he stated, recognizing the spidery scrawl on the labels, together with the colour, smell and taste. On the vials Lucius had given him earlier had been the same kind of script.

Lucius nodded and gave him General Healing potion for the skin and internal soft tissue damage, Blood-Replenishing potion, another dose of Pain-reliever and half a dose of Invigoration Draught mixed with half a dose of Pepper Up. He wanted the boy to gain some energy back, but not too much, less he became too hyper, aggressive or reckless.

Harry drank everything without complaint, although he grimaced at the taste. He was used to such healing potions from Madam Pomfrey's care. Juck! They tasted awful, but they really helped. He was very grateful for the water, being still terribly thirsty and it was nice to take sips of it in-between to wash the vile tasting potions down. He thought about how wonderful magic was. The glass must be charmed, because it refilled on its own with clear, fresh spring water as soon as he sat it back down again on the tablet.

Harry adjusted his seat and carefully leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment and concentrated on slowly, shallowly breathing in and out. He still felt somewhat weak and queasy, hopefully his stomach wouldn't act up after the long fasting, but he had taken great care to drink the cool water slowly and in small sips. Harry dared to relax so much, because he heard Nagini hissing softly that he was safe, she would protect him and Malfoy wouldn't hurt him, because he was under orders to fix Harry.

Lucius breathed a sigh of relief as a hint of rosy colour slowly returned to Potter's cheeks and the festering older and bleeding fresh wounds started to heal.

"Does your throat feel better? Can you breathe without trouble?"

Harry opened his eyes, took a deep breath and cleared his throat, before trying to speak. "Yes," he said softly, looking very surprised and delighted.

His hand went to his ribs to check them, everything felt smooth and aligned again. There was still a slight tenderness around his ribcage, but he could breathe without feeling a stab of pain in his chest. Checking his hands and wrist, he turned them around and flexed his fingers. Still a bit sore, but much better. His head didn't throb in pain any more, but he felt fuzzy, kind of numb and not alert enough for the situation. His back was healing, a feeling of an annoying tingling and prickling, not the sharp stinging and burning like before.

Who would have believed that Malfoy senior knew how to heal? Harry had always taken the wizard as somebody who would only cause injuries and kill, taking delight in the pain of his victims.

"I'm fine. Thank you Mr Malfoy," Harry said sincerely and relieved, "for the potions and the water. It's so great to be able to talk again."

"You're welcome, Potter." Next the blond wizard reached for something else on the tablet and offered the raven haired boy a small, artfully carved box filled to the brim with delicate chocolate confections.

Harry stared at them. "For me?" he blurted out, feeling his neck and cheeks heat up. "No, Mr Malfoy, thank you, but this isn't necessary. That's too good for me."

"Certainly this is for you," said Lucius emphatically. "You need cacao and sugar to restore your energy levels and that Dementor nearly got you. Chocolate is first aid after a Dementor encounter. And didn't anyone teach you that it's rather rude to tell your host something is too expensive for his guest? I assure you, I can spare a few boxes of chocolate on you Potter."

Host? Guest? Harry thought. He calls me his _guest_? But I'm a captive, a prisoner, am I not? The Malfoy I knew was cruel, snobbish and arrogant, but not this eccentric!

Potter looked confused, blushed and frowned, but after some hesitation he picked one of the light brown truffles to try. His eyes went wide while chewing. "Wow. Delicious. What kind is this? It's not from Honeydukes, is it?"

"No. These are from France," Lucius pointed them out, "and those are from England, Germany, Belgium and Switzerland. Do you like them?"

Potter hummed, licking his lips. After slowly chewing and swallowing another nougat praline, followed by a thin piece of dark chocolate shaped realistically like a small linden tree leaf, he replied, "Oh yes, I love them. I love chocolate in any form, always."

Lucius smiled indulgently, "If you enjoy chocolate so much, you should visit the Cacao and Chocolate museums and factories and watch the chocolatiers, the master chocolate makers at work."

"Where is that, on the continent? I always thought that Honeydukes' chocolate was the best. I have never tried other, well, I didn't know there was," said Potter.

"But this selection is mostly Muggle chocolate!" exclaimed Lucius, astonished that the young man didn't recognize this. "Look, this is quite normal chocolate and fudge toffee from London, the rest are, as I said, from the continent. Of course Belgium, Germany and Switzerland each claim to make the best chocolate creations. Every country in Europe produces its own speciality. Well, they are all excellent. The French also make really superb truffles, and don't forget their deserts, like Mousse au chocolat. Very different tastes chocolate from Iceland; imagine, they put salty liquorice in the middle. All these countries are not far away, especially for us wizards."

He chuckled, "I really can't decide what's best. I love this Swiss, dark chocolate with something spicy, like ginger or chili. Draco favours these sea food shaped nougat pralinès from Belgium, and of course he enjoys Honeydukes' finest selection, like every British schoolboy that attends Hogwarts, that's tradition. I believe it's because of the whole Hogsmeade experience, the air of adventure, of freedom on this day off of school grounds."

He thought about what Potter said. "Potter, you grew up in the Muggle world; didn't you ever see something like this at Harrods or eat a piece of chocolate cake?" Lucius asked disbelievingly.

Harry frowned, not able to process everything Malfoy told him, he was too exhausted, although he felt much better already. More confusion clouded his face. "I'm sorry Mr Malfoy, but what do you mean? You, the arrogant, intolerant, pure-blood eat Muggle chocolate? Visited Muggle museums and factories? I thought your side wants to murder all Muggles and Muggleborns? And, what is Harrods?"

Lucius blinked, taken aback. "Well Potter, you seem to have quite a warped impression of me, and of the Dark side. Firstly, I don't think of myself as intolerant. Arrogant? Perhaps, I'll give you that. From your point of view I must have appeared that way the very few times we have met or seen each other so far.

"Secondly, I believe that the way our age old wizarding traditions and knowledge are eroded, or even eradicated by the Light side is a crime against Magic and against our heritage. They are ruining our culture. At the same time Dumbledore and his misguided sycophants openly encourage Mudbloods and mixed marriages, creating more and more half-bloods with all assorted problems. Both together are very dangerous for our future, for all magical folk. There are valid reasons why so many wizards and witches distrust Muggles and Mudbloods, why Mudbloods are not widely accepted."

Harry stared at him uncomprehending; he felt his temper rise because of the slight against Hermione and his mother Lily. "But – but my friend Hermione is a brilliant young witch," he argued, "despite or because she is Muggle-born, I don't know. She learns so much so fast, she has the best grades in our year, she aces every test. Why do you and Draco always treat her with so much contempt, as unworthy? Draco often calls her a Mudblood, that's such a vile name. She is a human girl, she has magic. Hermione is a true witch, same as my mum, not some disgusting vermin."

Lucius listened, sneering derisively, but he allowed the boy to speak his mind. Anything lively and spirited was an improvement to the broken, fearful, ashamed bundle of nerves that thought of himself unworthy of food or care.

"Why do you hate Muggle-born so much?" Potter asked, while he stared at Malfoy with narrowed eyes. "At least Hermione has never done anything to you. I met her parents only that one time before second year, in Gringotts and Flourish and Blotts, but I cannot imagine that they ever harmed a wizard, or witch. They appeared to be friendly Muggles, not like the Dursleys."

Lucius noticed the boy's anger, uncertainty and bewilderment. Potter was loyal to his friend, naturally. There was so much that the young half-blood didn't know and currently could not understand, because he was not raised by a proper pure-blood wizarding family and had been indoctrinated for four years with half-truths and Light propaganda. Where to start explaining the complex situation to him, when the boy didn't seem to know the true history of wizard and Muggle relations?

"Potter, I _hate_ Dumbledore," Lucius stated, "both as a wizard and a politician. I thought I hated you, because of what you are and what you did. I certainly do not hate your friend, only feel mild contempt for her; well, I don't know her at all, save briefly seeing her. But of course I'm not satisfied that Draco lets himself be outdone by a Mu- Muggle-born girl year after year. He's a wealthy pure-blood heir who has grown up surrounded by magic since birth. My son was tutored from a young age, he should be top of the class and I admit that I let him feel my displeasure. I'll hazard a guess that Draco is embarrassed and angry at himself, so at Hogwarts he transfers this resentment to Miss Granger in addition to the whole Slytherin Gryffindor house rivalry and the Dark side versus Light side political manoeuvring."

Harry listened to Malfoy's explanations; he could understand some of what the blond wizard said. Not that he thought it OK. It was kind of reverse of his situation at Privet Drive. The Dursleys had hated and despised him, and when he, the 'freak,' brought back better results from primary school than their 'perfectly normal' Dudley, they were mighty displeased. After that punishment, Harry had taken care to deliberately mess his tests up. He wondered how Malfoy punished his son every summer for being second best to Hermione?

"We will discuss more philosophy and politics at a later time, all right?" Lucius interrupted Harry's contemplation. "I believe the Dark Lord will want to explain some of this to you himself."

Harry nodded, "OK."

"Now, I despise Muggles like your relatives, but I realize not _all_ Muggles are like them." Lucius continued his explanation. "In general, they are inferior to wizards, but there are exceptions I can tolerate and conduct business with. And, well, whether I like them or not, I simply have to deal with the management of our estate, and get on with our Muggle tenants and neighbours, just like my father before me. Naturally, I try to keep our interactions to the bare minimum. Occasionally I do enjoy Muggle products of good quality, like this chocolate, or wine, sherry, brandy, or whisky for example. I regularly tour vineyards of noble families in the Loire and Rhone valley or the Bordeaux region, on Sicily and elsewhere in Europe to select the best wines for my wine cellar. My family originates from Normandy, a remote cousin still lives in our Manoir there. Draco and I always visit Célestin for a week or two during the summers and over the Yule holidays we stop by on our way to the Alps. With Portkeys or Apparating travel is instantaneously, it's not as time consuming like Muggle traffic."

"Oh, sorry, I had no idea," remarked Harry, sporting an ashamed flush again as he picked at non-existent lint on the couch. Draco's and Lucius' life was so different from his; they could live on different continents!

"Of course not," stated Lucius in a slightly exasperated tone. "How could you? We've never had a chance to have a civil conversation before today. You, or your mother, nearly destroyed the Dark Lord and cost us the victory in the last war. You're the figurehead of the Light side. I tried to hurt or kill you and people you consider friends."

Potter snorted, looking up at him, angry, disturbed and puzzled. "Yeah, let's better not talk about _that _right now. I'm not the figurehead of anybody, least the Light side. I hate the titles and labels people dub me with. Don't you read the prophet, sir? One week a hero, the next week a villain, an attention seeking liar and cheater." He huffed, shaking his head. "It's only, uhm, well, I didn't think you of all people would buy stuff from Muggles, at all."

Lucius frowned. "Well, if I limited myself to only British wizard made products, I would miss a lot. Can you imagine me drinking only pumpkin juice, Butterbeer, Gillywater and Firewhisky? Honestly, Potter. Didn't you know that we are not that many wizard folk in Europe or Britain, so our economy is not self-sufficient?" Lucius asked.

Dumbfounded, Potter blinked at him owlishly. "Pardon, but what do you mean, Mr Malfoy?"

Evidently the boy had never thought about this before. Lucius allowed himself a sigh, before clarifying, "Wizards have to procure certain products or raw materials from the Muggle economy. Where do you suppose does the tea, or the potatoes, or most of the meat come from you consume at Hogwarts? Or the wool for your school robes and cloak? The cotton or linen for the bed sheets? On the continent are more joint ventures compared to Britain, like Muggle vineyards and factories under partly wizard management to get the best of both worlds. They somehow manage to utilise the labour and knowledge of the Muggles and still conform to the Statute of Secrecy. Well, the governments, laws and political climate on the continent are quite different compared to Britain."

Potter stared at him as if he was talking about pixies taming dragons. This concept obviously went way over the boy's head, so Lucius focused on something else.

"Potter, you grew up near London, so you should at least have heard of Harrods; Harrods is a most famous Muggle department store in Knightsbridge, a luxury shop in the heart of Muggle London," explained Lucius.

"Oh. I wouldn't know any of this, sir," Harry said dejectedly, looking at his hands in his lap. "I never got any sweets at my relatives. And I've only been to the Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley and Kings Cross train station in London. And twice for a short visit at The Burrow with the Weasleys, and once to the Quidditch World cup, although I don't really know where that was."

He felt inadequate and humiliated in the presence of the classy, well-travelled Malfoy Lord and kept his gaze fixed downward. How should he know anything about how the wizard or Muggle market worked or where posh people shopped? He'd grown up in a cupboard! It doesn't matter, you are his prisoner, Harry thought dejectedly. Malfoy is only so friendly and heals you because he and Voldemort want something from you. Or perhaps to put you at ease, lure you into a false sense of safety and comfort, so you suffer more when they turn on you later.

Lucius kept a straight face, but swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, feeling like a complete, insensitive prat. The evidence of neglect and physical abuse on the boy was plain to see, Potter had been clad in rags when they found him. Of course his uncouth, cruel relatives wouldn't have taken him for sightseeing or shopping trips to Muggle London or elsewhere.

To cover the awkward moment, he quickly selected a beige-brown Fruits de mer and offered it to Harry. For a moment the boy cringed at the sudden movement, as if expecting to be backhanded. When Lucius held his hand perfectly poised and still, Harry relaxed, he leaned forward to nibble the praliné directly from Lucius' fingers.

The blond man inhaled sharply. Didn't the boy know how suggestive this was? Was he that innocent and naïve? Or did he do it on purpose to entice the wizard? Very hard to tell. Potter seemed mostly to be wary, distrustful, but the sudden change in demeanour was startling. Almost as if Potter was a consummate actor, who tried out different roles to test which one suited his purpose best.

Mentally shrugging it off, Lucius asked, "Potter, do you feel strong enough to take a bath or a hot shower?"

Harry stared at him, again. A hot shower? Pure luxury, unthinkable during the summer, the Dursleys never allowed him such. He'd love to indulge in thoroughly washing himself. Where was the catch?

"Yes, please. Sir." he said softly.

Lucius rose and stepped around the sofa, saying, "Well, come on, this way."

Nagini hissed delightedly and quickly slid off the couch, in the direction of the other door. When Harry waited a moment, she turned back, calling him. {Come sneaky raven, turn on the water! I love to bathe.}

So Nagini knew the way to the bathroom and would accompany him, Harry thought. Maybe everything was all right here. Maybe he could trust Mr Malfoy with this too? Still, he was an adult, much stronger, and he could bind him with a word and do whatever he wanted to Harry. But so far, he only seemed concerned for his welfare and obeying the order from Voldemort to heal Harry. He had invited him to sit on the sofa – something the Dursleys never allowed him – and Malfoy had not reacted with anger and punishment at the way Harry had spoken to him.

Harry tried to calm his nerves by taking a deep breath and slowly followed the tall blond wizard, who had stepped to the side to let the snake pass him. Nagini led the way through a short hallway into a dimly lit bedroom with an adjoining bathroom on one side, and an open walk in wardrobe on the other side. Harry didn't pay any attention to the furniture or layout in the bedroom, he felt the sudden need to relieve himself and hoped Malfoy would leave him alone soon.

Lucius stopped besides the bathroom door and flicked his wand inside. The room lit up, and Harry heard water starting to flow, it sounded like pouring rain, and pleasantly scented hot steam rolled towards him.

"There you go, Potter. On the side of the shower wall you'll find a dispenser in shoulder height, it looks like a fish head, just say what you want, soap, shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, and any special wishes you may have, like your preferred fragrance, OK? Fresh towels are on that rack. Don't take too long, or I'll have to check you didn't drown yourself." Lucius smirked at him.

Harry flushed a bit, nodded, murmuring "Thanks, sir," and stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.

He hesitated a moment, then scolded at himself for being modest and shy while in the presence of an animal, so he dropped the blanked in a corner and walked across the tiled floor, which looked like grey and white marble. The walls of the bathroom where tiled in white marble, with a grey, black and blue mosaic border running around on eye level, depicting dolphins, various other sea creatures and mermaids jumping over waves and diving again. On the roof was a round decoration, it looked as if one could look inside some large fish tank or into the ocean. Harry had seen something like this on TV, when Dudley had forgotten to switch it off and a documentation was broadcast while Harry did his usual chores in the kitchen like washing up. Some of the mermaids winked at Harry and waved! He blushed, remembering the prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts.

He looked around and quickly spotted another door, which lead him to a toilet. After he had relived himself, he joined Nagini in the shower. She slithered around the floor, occasionally rubbing herself against the side of the large round enclosure, obviously enjoying the water pouring down like a strong rain shower or soft waterfall onto her. Harry had to smile at the picture of this huge animal playing around like a child in the rain.

A moment later he understood her, the falling water on his head and shoulders was of the perfect temperature, neither too cold nor too warm. It was a truly luxurious feeling, and he just stood there, sighing, tilting his head back, then washing himself carefully and enjoying the moment. He was very glad for the Potions he had drunk; otherwise his wounds would have surely hurt as soon as the water hit him, massaging the stiffness and tension out of his shoulders.

{Nicsse, issn't it?} asked Nagini.

{Yeah, it iss,} sighed Harry, leaning his arms against the wall and closing his eyes, letting all his angst and fear flush down the drain.

He forgot about everything else, until a few sharp knocks on the bathroom door and Nagini brushing along his ankle and nudging him brought him back into reality.

"Just a moment, Mr Malfoy!" Harry called out. He hastily washed his hair and rinsed off the rest of the shampoo. After stepping out of the shower he searched for a towel. A look around, and he found the towel rack. While drying off, he watched Nagini rolling around in the water, splashing and undulating like she couldn't get enough of it.

{Hey, come out, or all your beautiful coloured sscales will wassh off!} he teased, wrapping the towel around his hips.

The snake hissed amusedly, but obeyed. {You think me beautiful? _Only_ beautiful?}

{Oh, you look gorgeouss, sso ssstrong, powerful, deadly, yet gracssseful at the ssame time, a wondrousss ssight, the magnificsssent queen of all sssnakes!}

More amused hissing, like laughter. {Do ssomething usseful, Flattertongue, and dry me!}

{At your sservice, your gracssse,} Harry said. Crouching down besides Nagini, he noticed too late that he needed another towel. Without thinking, he stretched out his hand towards the towel rack, calling "Accio towel!" The requested item flew into his hand and he started to rub the huge snake down, scratching off the rest of her skin shedding. The water in the shower had stopped to flow down, as soon as both of them had vacated the enclosure.

Lucius knocked again, before he slowly opened the door to peer inside. Steam billowed out, which he cleared with a flick of his wand, only to blink at the display inside. Potter, naked except for a towel around his middle, crouched besides the large snake on the tiles, giving her a good rubdown, while both hissed playfully back and forth. The boy looked happy, flushed and glowing, his wild black hair dripping water; a good look, despite his starved and scar covered appearance. He seemed to be in excellent spirits. Incredible, how quickly his moods changed and that he seemed so relaxed when interacting only with the snake.

The older wizard cleared his throat demonstratively. Potter looked up startled, and said something to the snake. He rose quickly dropping the towel and stepped towards the man, holding himself stiffly like at attention, hands flat at his sides, neck slightly bowed with his eyes downcast, radiating nervousness, fear and submission.

Lucius noticed Potter's body language, but didn't comment. The way the boy acted implied things he might have enjoyed under different circumstances, but tonight this only disturbed and incensed him, because it was so damned wrong! Potter shouldn't act like this on his own, as if he expected commands or an imminent attack, but didn't dare to defend himself.

Lucius had brought along two small jars from the first aid kit, which he set down on the counter. He opened the bruise paste and dabbed his fingers into the white substance. When he purposefully brought up his hand to Potter's neck, intending to treat the still visible evidence of his uncle almost throttling him, the boy flinched. Closing his eyes he hunched his shoulders and averted his head in an involuntary reaction, as if expecting a slap or punch, despite Lucius acting nice toward him all evening.

The man huffed, frustrated. "Potter, this is only Bruise balm. You have nasty bruises on your neck, your face and elsewhere. Let me heal you, it'll only take a few minutes. In the other jar is Burn Healing paste."

Potter turned his head, opened his eyes and stared at him, as if he could not believe that Lucius wanted to help him. "I don't mind, it's nothing. It will get better on its own," replied the young man, averting his eyes again while blushing scarlet, despite his attempts to fight the reaction down. "You already cast healing charms and gave me potions. That's more than enough. You don't have to bother, sir."

"Nonsense," said Lucius. "I'm no certified healer, what I do is only battle first aid. This balm will help to heal the superficial wounds and also the deeper bruises more quickly."

Harry still looked dubious.

Lucius smiled and winked, lowering his voice to a confidential tone, "It works, I can assure you Potter. Severus himself made it, and I know Draco uses it here at home and at Hogwarts, when he has Quidditch injuries. When he was younger, I used to treat him with this balm and massage him after our training sessions or competitions at festivities, when he recounted every daring move or strategy he had used while playing. As a result his skin is blemish free, immaculate, despite him falling of his broom or being battered by Bludgers or slamming against the stands or goal posts frequently. Don't tell him I told you, OK? He likes to keep a certain image."

Harry stared at the handsome wizard disbelievingly; he felt a sharp pang of loss in his chest, tears prickled at the corner of his eyes so that he had to blink. He scolded himself for being such a weak fool, but hearing a normally cold and ruthless man like Malfoy speak like this about something so private, shared activities with his son, something so normal for a loving father, brought it home again sharply that Harry had never and would never experience likewise.

"Come now Potter, hold still. Close your eyes, I'll start with your face," Lucius commanded sternly. When Harry didn't react, he snapped again in a sharper tone, "Now, Potter!"

And the boy obeyed, albeit obviously very nervous and ashamed of the state he was in. Potter gritted his teeth and pulled up a blank, indifferent mask. Lucius quickly dabbed the balm onto the discoloured skin, starting on Potter's head, face and neck, moving efficiently and professional. He could feel the boy trembling every so often in fear or other suppressed emotion under his hands, but he also was aware off the incredible, attractive power of Potter's magic thrumming through his body. The boy was giving off literary waves of power, it just about radiated from his very pores, humming beneath his skin.

I wish Harry wouldn't fear me so much, Lucius mused. Uh? Now why did I just think that? It's Potter. Potter would be a fool to not fear me, us, this situation, being in my manor, with the Dark Lord. Yes, we rescued him, and he's safe here from the Muggles, that is true. And I am willing to offer him protection and a place to stay. But what will our Lord decide to do with Potter? Will I be able to obey? He slapped himself mentally on the head. Am I crazy? Contemplating again to disobey my Lord for this boy? Protecting him? I really need another brandy, or better, a nice strong Firewhisky.

"Turn around, so I can treat your back," he commanded briskly.

"Yes, sir," came the quiet reply, before the boy shuffled around. Potter hung his head in shame and flushed scarlet, again. His blank expression wavered for a moment and showed that he again wished he could sink into the floor, just vanish.

Lucius took care with the bruises, cuts and welts on Potter's back and shoulders, he knew that without the Pain-reliever potion, the balm would sting in the already healing lashes when first applied. On the young man's lower back were many small red spots in a pattern like crude letters, spelling FREAK from left to right above the line where his briefs or boxers would be. Lucius gnashed his teeth in anger, suppressed a growl and very carefully dabbed the inflamed skin with Burn salve as quickly as he could. He didn't comment or say anything comforting, what use would that be?

Potter trembled almost unnoticeable, but didn't sigh, gasp or show other signs of discomfort; it was obvious that he was used to hiding his pain or distress. That indicated how bad his initial headache must have been, if he couldn't control his reactions as good as with his other wounds.

Lucius stopped his ministrations at the young man's waistline, where Potter had pulled the bath towel tightly around himself. Obviously Potter had a serious problem with trust and any form of touch; he seemed to expect an attack, more pain and humiliation any moment. No wonder, these scars and wounds spoke of years of torment. And the boy was additionally distressed from the Dementor attack, which surely had brought up many painful and scary memories.

There were a few more welts below the waistline, and additionally Lucius had gotten a glimpse of more of those small, red circular spots. He refused to think about the possible origin or he would go into a blind rage and Apparate straight back to Privet Drive to find the culprit and torture them to death. Muggles had no right to harm or to torture a wizard, child or adult, period. Wizards were superior to Muggles. Wizards torturing or killing other wizards or Muggles, if needs be, was something else in his mind.

While working, Lucius' mind wandered again. And to think, that my son mocked Potter for being so afraid of Dementors. Draco has no idea what true pain and fear is or what horrors this child survived. Oh Merlin, nobody I know had any idea. Severus won't believe this if he doesn't scan Potter himself for the boy's medical history. But how come Severus never noticed anything amiss with Potter? How come Madam Pomfrey didn't notice? Or did she, and Dumbledore kept it under wraps?

Or, an even more outrageous thought, does Pomfrey know and doesn't care, because this treatment of Potter fits in with some grand plan of the Headmaster? And Severus? No, I cannot imagine he would knowingly tolerate this, pondered Lucius, even if the child in question is James Potter's son. He is Lily's son too.

After finishing his applications he cleaned his hands with a spell, before gently turning the young wizard around. "Look, here is the Bruise balm and the Burn salve, maybe there are some places you would rather treat yourself? I'll wait outside."

"Yeah, thanks, Mr Malfoy" Harry mumbled, his ears, neck and face blushing fire red before he gingerly reached out to pick up the jars.

Lucius walked outside and closed the bathroom door behind him, intent on putting some distance between them to regain his equilibrium.

Harry stared at the door after Malfoy left, completely bewildered, mortified and embarrassed, but incredibly grateful for the consideration of the older wizard. He never would have expected that kind of treatment he got here. Slytherins had always hurt, taunted or humiliated him until now. He'd never believed them capable of anything else. All he'd ever heard was that they were evil, through and through. He dropped the towel and quickly spread some of the soothing salves on his backside, his groin and his upper thighs.

When Harry was finished, he washed his hands and dried them. Draping the towel around his hips again, he stepped up to the door and opened it again, only to find Malfoy sitting on a chair at the side of the room and calmly waiting for him.

"Potter?"

"Yes, Mr Malfoy?" replied Harry.

"Would you like some night clothes?"

"Uh, oh, yes, please," Harry answered gratefully, but also reluctantly. Did Malfoy want him to go somewhere else to fetch those night clothes, from where? He wouldn't offer him something belonging to Voldemort, would he?

He flinched when the wizard did a short sidewise forward upward twirl with his wand, then gasped wide-eyed as a stack of some greyish cloth sailed through the air towards him – and a moment later his skin was abruptly covered with the most beautiful, elegant, cool, soft silk silver-grey pyjamas he had ever seen or touched in his life. They fit! Malfoy had spelled them on, what a useful trick! The wet towel flew back into a hamper opening up suddenly in the corner of the room and vanished.

"Wow! Thank you, sir!" exclaimed Harry, thinking how wonderful and useful magic was.

He took a few deep breaths and tried to let the tension go. Malfoy hadn't hurt or taunted or touched him inappropriately, at all. So Harry dared to look around for a moment, getting the impression of a room furnished with warm dark brown wooden furniture, the walls covered partly by oak panelling in a lighter shade than the dark brown hardwood floor. Forest green drapes covering the window in the same colour as the comforter and stack of cushions on the bed. Everything looked like it was of good quality but very simple, practical and austere, no elaborate decorations or anything save for some repetitive, carved designs Harry couldn't clearly make out.

"Come along, Potter."

Lucius led Harry back to the drawing room and indicated for him to sit down on the sofa again, before pressing a large glass of some cold, clear liquid, bubbling with sprinkles of yellow and a plate with a selection of accurately cut ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato and cucumber sandwiches into his hands. The boy stared at him with a look of dazed disbelief and incomprehension. "For me, something else? Sir?"

"Yes. Drink up, Potter."

After taking a sip, Harry smiled at Lucius. "Thanks, sir. This is much better than the pumpkin juice at Hogwarts. What is it?"

"Freshly elf made lemonade," answered Lucius, refusing to acknowledge that a fifteen year old boy didn't know what lemonade was.

"You are too kind, Mr Malfoy. This isn't necessary, not for me."

"Yes, it _is_ necessary. You're skin and bones. Stop acting as if you don't deserve common courtesy, you foolish child," Lucius said a bit tetchily, trying to mask his anger, his rage at the Muggles, for that would only scare Potter in his current state of mind.

Harry flushed in shame, again. He hated it if someone called him child, or boy. It was so difficult to leave the mind-set of 'Summer' behind, because it _was_ still summer, just the beginning of August. In September, after the yearly ritual of walking through Kings Cross train station and riding the Hogwarts Express, or when visiting the Weasleys, he could quickly switch over to acting like people expected 'Harry Potter' to act, but tonight he was still now and then slipping back into what he called his 'Dursley's slave or house elf mode.'

After a minute he dared to look up and reach for a sandwich and his glass of lemonade again, munching and sipping away slowly, savouring the delicious taste, the peace and quiet of the room and the heavenly feeling of such a high quality garment on his skin. It was such a stark contrast to his life at Privet Drive and the events of earlier this evening, hard to fathom that this was all real and no dream.

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy, the sandwich tastes very good," Harry said.

"Your welcome," replied Lucius. "Debby improvised, she didn't know yet what you like. Don't you want to eat one more?"

"I'd like to, but I can't eat very much at once." He flushed in shame, again. At Lucius raised eyebrow and questioning look, Harry elaborated, "My stomach – is – uh - you see, sir, it's a while since I ate something. I've got to get used to food again over a few days, or I'll get sick."

Lucius nodded understandingly, struggling to keep the fury off his face. The boy was used to this; he looked so starved because those blasted Muggles didn't feed him properly. Of course Potter was so careful. "Take your time, Potter. Is there something you'd like, something you can digest better?"

"Oh, um, well, I'd like dry toast at first, and then something simple like porridge, boiled rice or potatoes, or vegetable or chicken soup."

"I understand, I'll tell Debby for tomorrow."

Harry smiled gratefully, noting in the back of his mind that Malfoy assumed that Harry would need food tomorrow, implying that he would be alive and allowed to eat something the next day. Good, that was good. Casting around for something to break the sudden silence, Harry asked, "Are these Draco's pyjamas? They are very nice."

Lucius smiled, "You're welcome, Mr Potter. Indeed, these pyjamas are Draco's, from last year. You don't mind?"

"Are you kidding me?" Harry snorted. "I've never had anything so wonderful or elegant in my whole life, besides my dress robes for last winter's Yule ball. At the Dursleys I always got my cousin's old clothes, they never gave me anything new. You saw how I looked like. Compared to that stuff, Draco's oldest pyjamas are pure luxury. I hope _he_ doesn't mind!"

"Draco isn't here tonight, and he wouldn't notice anyway, as his walk-in wardrobe is overflowing with the latest fashion," responded Lucius.

Potter didn't comment further. His face closed off, as the two so unlike men contemplated the kind of atrocious life the famous Boy Who Lived had led so far, although their thoughts were completely different.

Lucius thought that he might have spoiled his son too much, and how outrageous it was that Potter grew up the way he did, when everybody in the wizarding world had believed that he lived in a comfortable home, surrounded by luxury and servants and loving relatives like it was becoming to his status in society. Harry was the famous Boy-Who-Lived and more important, the Potter heir, for Morgana's sake!

Harry felt a bit ashamed, decidedly bitter at the Dursleys, Dumbledore, Voldemort (who had caused him to become an orphan, after all) and a bit jealous of Draco, but not much.

Stronger was his feeling of relief and gratefulness, again. Malfoy did so much for him, how should he ever return all these favours? Then Harry thought about something else. It had been mortifying to be so naked and exposed in front of these men, but he had noticed that Malfoy, Avery or Voldemort regarded him coolly all the time, apart from their anger over his injuries, as if it was absolutely natural that a half-naked boy knelt at their feet or sat or stood right next to them. Well, maybe it was normal to them; Harry didn't know anything about Voldemort's or Malfoy's private life or habits. He remembered from the Quidditch World Cup that Malfoy was married to a cold, arrogant, beautiful blonde woman.

He shuddered at the idea what he might learn here. Voldemort or Malfoy could do whatever they wanted to him.

He shook off his fear and doubts a moment later, it was no use to fret like a stupid girl. So far, nothing wicked or cruel had happened to him since he clung to Malfoy in that alley in the ice cold darkness, pleading for help. Maybe they wouldn't hurt him very much.

Malfoy had been gentle while treating his wounds and bruises with the salve. This kind of caring touch by an adult, a man, was a completely new experience for Harry. He was used to painful pinches, squeezes, cuffs, slaps and punches from 'home'. Since arriving at Hogwarts, Hagrid, Hermione, Sirius, or Mrs Weasley had hugged him a few times, and he'd received some pats or claps on the shoulder or back in a friendly manner from Ron, Hagrid, the twins and his Gryffindor Quidditch team mates. Malfoy's touch felt quite different, but good.

While Lucius and Harry had been busy, Nagini had left the bathroom and explored the bedroom and wardrobe, disappointed that she didn't find anything to chase, like a rat or inexperienced young house elf. Now she followed the pair of wizards into the sitting-room and climbed up onto the couch, surrounding the boy. She slithered forward, moving over his hips and thighs, climbing and curling up over his arm, shoulder and neck from the other side.

Harry was astonished, but also pleasantly surprised. The snake was long, heavy, warm, and strong. Rationally he knew that she could kill him in a second, squash him to death or bite him, but he didn't fear her. She'd convinced Voldemort to let him live and seemed very happy to interact with him.

Maybe her life with her master had been quite dull sometimes, when the Dark Lord was busy with planning his evil deeds, meeting his followers, or whatever the snakelike wizard did all day or night, so she liked Harry's company for that reason? Was he something like a plaything, a pet to her?

Harry snorted inwardly. Oh how the mighty have fallen, from the once adored and fawned over saviour of the wizarding world from his first year to be the pet of the pet, the familiar of You-Know-Who? Well, Harry was rather Nagini's companion than Petunia's house elf or Dudley's and Vernon's punching ball and amusement for Dudley's sick gang.

{Feeling better, little sssneaky raven? You're nicssse and warm,} Nagini hissed softly.

Harry carefully set down the lemonade glass again after drinking deeply, sat back and began to stroke her warm, supple, diamond patterned skin. {Yess, thanks Nagini, I'm much better. Thank you for helping and protecting me.}

{Yesss. You can ssstart to thank me like you do Flattertongue, ssscratch a bit more over there, ahhh, yessssss. And do that long sstroke again, like a massage. Yesss, that'sss right, there.} The huge snake directed Harry's hands, undulating and moving into the best position for a good back and belly rub.

Lucius startled at first when they took up their hissed conversation, then he just sat across from Potter, watching him, studying the young man and mentally comparing him to his son, Draco and to the picture that Draco and Severus had always painted of the young wizard.

Potter is not defiant, arrogant and conceited; he is humble, insecure, grateful for every morsel like a beaten down, starved dog, Lucius realized. Sweet Salazar! This Potter is so completely different from the Harry Potter at Hogwarts, or at Florish and Blotts in second year, or at the Quidditch World cup last summer or during the tasks of the Triwizard Tournament or recently in the graveyard.

He appears to be ten years older, although he is younger and smaller than Draco. So lean, he appears so vulnerable, but incredibly strong at the same time. His muscles are so wiry, hard. And that power under the surface, delicious. He is so scrawny now, but in a month he should be able to gain one or two stones with proper food, nutritive potions and exercise. He will become very handsome and attractive once he is back on his feet and a few years older, with that black hair, Avada Kedavra green, emerald eyes, skin so pale with a golden glow where he was kissed by the sun.

Uh, what am I thinking, he scolded himself, waxing poetical about Potter? Don't get attached, maybe our lord will order me to torture or execute him tomorrow or next week, if the boy regains his Gryffindor obduracy and does something imprudent. Oh Mordred and Morgana! I don't want to, what a waste.

When Potter finished the lemonade, sighing in contentment and licking his lips, Lucius banished the empty glass, the plate and vials with a short stab of his wand to the kitchen. He watched a while how Potter stroked and petted the snake, how they hissed softly to each other. Astonishingly Nagini behaved similar to a kneazle, rubbing herself against the young wizard's thinly clad body, curling, moving over and around him in sensuous way, obviously enjoying Potter's ministrations and telling the boy how to touch or scratch her skin.

Before today, Lucius had always feared the magical reptile, knowing her only as a most dangerous animal that would brutally attack anyone her master commanded her to, to intimidate, to punish or to kill. It was quite fascinating to watch her with the boy, who showed no fear of the beast. On the contrary, Potter appeared to enjoy chatting with and petting the snake just as much as she. And something else, hearing Parseltongue from Potter's lips sounded different to the Dark Lord conversing with his familiar or cursing in agitation or passion.

After a while of observing them Lucius prepared himself a drink and also offered the young wizard a tumbler of brandy, levitating it near the sofa – he didn't want to go near Potter with the dangerous snake wound around him like that, if he could avoid it.

Potter looked astonished at the new glass and at him. "Is that alcohol? You're offering me alcohol? I'm not allowed. Tsk, tsk, Mr Malfoy, I don't know what the school governors or the Prophet would say? You, the epitome of virtue, are corrupting a minor on purpose?" he teased, looking up through his dark fringe bashfully.

Lucius smiled and chuckled, "Ah, this epitome of virtue, that would be you, Mr Potter," he teased right back, stroking a strand of his silver mane behind his ear unconsciously.

Voldemort, who was watching all this interaction disillusioned and quite fascinated from the shadows of the door, was honestly relieved that the potions, chocolate, Nagini's coddling and Lucius' charm worked so well in restoring at least some of Potter's normal cheeky behaviour. Although he was somewhat envious, seeing them so at ease with each other. Now they were almost flirting! Potter is mine, he thought.

The broken child persona had disturbed him and his men on a fundamental level. This was Harry Potter, for Merlin's sake! He stood up to me bravely three years and just five weeks ago!

I want him back, Voldemort decided. I want the defiant, arrogant, confident, strong, powerful, courageous, reckless Gryffindor. That was a worthy enemy, not this submissive, shy, frail, abused boy. He had fantasized so often about what he would do to Potter when, not if, he caught him. How he would deliciously, masterfully torture and break him, until Potter spilled all of Dumbledore's secret plans, until he begged for death, that he felt kind of betrayed with the reality of this weary, beaten down child. Another reason to hate the Muggles and Dumbledore.

And what of the Parseltongue? And of Nagini's insistence that Potter and I smell alike, share something more than his blood, are similar, probably related? And the wands? How come Potter's wand feels so right in my hand? Voldemort wondered.

"It's only for medical purposes; take a small sip, carefully," Lucius said there while. "Cheers!" He raised his glass and drank, Potter copied him with a grin, before he coughed once, not used to the sharp bite of the alcohol and the feeling of warmth running down his throat to heat up his belly.

"Do you like it? Did the potions help? Feeling better?" Lucius inquired.

"Huh, this drink is a bit strong for me; it's my first try at alcohol. But thank you very much, Mr Malfoy, I'm fine," Potter said earnestly, setting down the tumbler before he shuffled around a bit, until he was sitting more comfortable with crossed legs and leaned carefully back against the backrest and the body of the snake, one of his hands continuously stroking Nagini.

Darting his eyes around the room, he asked, "Where am I, sir?"

"In my home, Malfoy Manor," responded Lucius. "In the Dark Lord's drawing room on the first floor of the guest wing, to be precise."

"Oh. Thanks for bringing me along, then," Harry said. "I'm really grateful. How can I repay you, sir?"

"Repay me?" Lucius cocked an eyebrow, angling his head a fraction in question.

"You and Mr Avery saved my life tonight," stated Harry. "You didn't have to chase the Dementor off or to take me along or make a fuss over me like you do. You m-must want something in return."

The subtle stutter and the too rapid breathing gave away how difficult this was for Potter, how scared he was despite the brave front. His thoughts were easy to read.

What will Malfoy want? What will he do?

Harry then tilted his head and smiled coyly up at Lucius, who looked first a bit stunned and then calculating.

Here it was again, Lucius thought, this rapid personality change. As if Potter is trying out a role, being coy, hoping it will help him to survive.

When Malfoy didn't answer straight away, Harry glanced curiously around the comfortable, elegantly furnished room until his gaze fell on the door to the study.

Lucius also looked in that direction, waiting for orders.

There was a very tall, pale man leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed in front of his chest, clad in a loose falling midnight blue, almost gossamer like silk summer robe. Harry could not see him clearly without his glasses, but that wasn't necessary, he suddenly sensed, felt him; this dark magic powerhouse was unique. He had completely forgotten about Voldemort after his head stopped throbbing in pain; he had been so caught up in Malfoy's presence, his nice words and soothing touches, the food and drink, and in the last few minutes Nagini had distracted him. Voldemort must have somehow cloaked his presence, his aura while watching them. Harry's face changed in a second to a resigned, blank mask.

"Oh, of course. How stupid of me. I- I'm sorry," he mumbled, feeling his stomach twist in apprehension. What would Voldemort want now? How long had he observed Harry, Nagini and Malfoy?

* * *

><p>edit AN:<p>

Hello to anonymous reviewer paili-chan,

thanks for your reviews and questions. Because you are not logged in, I can't send you a PM.

You voiced concerns about Arabella (AF), Mundungus (MF), Dumbledore (AD), Vernon (VD) and asked why doesn't the Order of the Phoenix find out more swiftly where Harry (HP) is and storm Malfoy Manor. Good questions!

Well, actually I planned this very carefully, but I have not published what happens on the "other" side, the Light side in the same detail as what happens at Malfoy Manor, because I assumed my readers know all the HP books, why else would they start to read fanfics?

If someone has only seen the films, then they might have the same questions as you do, so thanks for pointing it out. I believe most of your questions will be answered in chapter 15, 16 and 18, nevertheless I'm going to discuss the relevant differences between books and films.

I followed more what happens at the beginning of the 5th book and not so much the 5th film.

The whole start of the 5th book, Harry's immense anger, angst and frustration, his burning need for news, the feeling of abandonment, of betrayal because nobody informs him what the heck is going on, the sudden loud noise and the violent altercation with Vernon is not shown in the corresponding film.

They _hint_ at this, that HP is angry, unhappy, lonely, and frustrated, that the Dursleys don't like him, and that Dudley's gang bullies him, but that's all. Why? Who knows? The 5th film starts out with Harry walking through a sunburned landscape, we see the motorway, the uniform houses of a typical London suburb in the background and then he is sitting on that swing in the play park on a sunny, hot summer day. Likewise, the scene with Dudley's gang and the Dementor attack is quite different from the book, but equally nasty.

So, the time-line for MTMTE, based on what JKR tells us in chapter one _Dudley Demented_ of OOTP:  
>VD, PD and HP are listening to the 07.00 pm TV news.<br>MF - who is supposed to watch over HP - Disapparates at the end of the news broadcast, I guess sometime between 07.15 to 07.30 pm? That is the sudden loud noise like a gunshot, see chapter 1. After this loud noise happens the rest, so MF has no idea at all that VD hurts HP.

The neighbours either don't see, or deliberately ignore the altercation. Remember, in canon (see also the beginning of POA, 3rd book and film) they all believe that HP is a hooligan, attending St Brutus School for Incurably Criminal Boys. So, if a Muggle neighbour notices that Mr Dursley disciplines this boy, they think it is completely okay and proper, its VD's good right as the boys guardian.

Some significant details are changed to start my story:

1. VD has injured HP's neck more compared to the first chapter of the 5th book, where he also leans out of the living-room window, grabs and strangles him, but HP shocks his uncle with wandless magic to let go quickly. In my AU, HP is afraid to use magic during the summer. He has read the Daily Prophet (not just skimmed the wizard news like he did in the book), so he is completely aware of the "Anti-Dumbledore and Anti-Potter" stance of the Ministry of Magic. He does not want to risk using magic and probably getting expelled from Hogwarts.

2. In MTMTE, HP can't speak the incantation _Expecto Patronum_ correctly because of his sore throat and the Dementor choking him additionally. He never manages to cast his Patronus charm, he only _tries_ to. If LM and GA hadn't helped him just in time, he would now be in the same state as DD is in chapter 11 of MTMTE, soul less, brain dead, comatose.  
>- In the 5th book, HP tries twice to cast, but only silver vapour appears, and only then he manages to produce a full bodied, corporal Patronus, the white stag, the symbol for his dad.<br>- In the 5th film, he stabs the Dementor with his wand, and is dropped to the ground. HP crawls away, turns around, manages to cast the Patronus on the very first try, and it appears only as a round, fast moving white light.

3. Because HP does not cast magic with his wand – a successful, fully corporal Patronus - that _The Trace_ registers, there is NO recording of this forbidden act of _Underage Magic in the presence of a Muggle _by the Ministry of Magic in MTMTE compared to book and film OOTP!

4. In conclusion, there is NO first letter of expulsion from Hogwarts and NO second letter with the threat to snap his wand sent to HP at Privet Drive by that Ministry witch, Mafalda Hopkirk, like it happens in the 5th book and partly in the film, where they show only the first letter. It appears as if it was a kind of Howler, an animated, speaking letter. _Which is again a significant difference to the book._  
>- Now, both these letters from Mrs Hopkirk are quite important because they give us exact times. They fix the time when Harry cast his successful Patronus at twenty-three minutes past nine. That's why MTMTE starts out with LV hearing LM and GA Apparate in at twenty-five minutes past nine, see chapter 1.<em><br>_- In the 5th film, in the letter speaking with Mafalda's voice, the time is changed to twenty-three minutes past six.  
><em>Why? Apparently, because they wanted to stuff the rescue scene (That broom ride to London with the so called Advance Guard) in on that very same evening, which actually happens four nights later in the book.<em>

5. In MTMTE, AD as the Hogwarts Headmaster is NOT quickly informed that Harry is in trouble.  
>- now, JKR does <em>not<em> tell us in the 5th book just _how_ AD knows what's going on, but I'm sure it is in her notes!  
>The reader knows that AD rushes to the Ministry and tries to sort things out, because AW and SB each write letters to Harry telling him this and to stay inside the house and not to do any more magic. AW seems to have actually been at the Ministry at that time of night for whatever reason. <em>These other letters are missing completely in the film.<em>

Concerning Arabella: In canon AF = Arabella Figg, is a _Squib_, she cannot contact AD (or other wizards) directly by magical means like paili-chan supposed she could.

If AF had access to for example an owl or a fireplace connected to the Floo network, she would of course have used them. But JKR deliberately wrote at the start of chapter two, _A Peck of Owls_, that AF is very upset because she isn't able to inform AD on her own. There is a dialogue scene between HP and AF while HP lugs his unresponsive, chalk white cousin back towards Privet Drive.

In the 5th film they at least _hint_ at this problem too, but it's only one brief sentence that AF says to HP when they stand outside the Dursley's house, that he should stay in the house, and that she supposes somebody will be in touch shortly.

In the 5th film, Mundungus Fletcher is not mentioned or introduced in this scene at all. MF is also missing in the 6th film, whereas in the 6th book (after Sirius' death) he stole a lot of valuable stuff from the Black house and HP catches him later in Hogsmeade when MF attempts to sell these items like silverware on the street. Vital info, of course, for HBP and DH, to better understand about the Locket Horcrux, creating the need for the film makers to explain at least parts of this back-story in the film DH 7.1.

So, in my story AF must wait for MF's return too, just the same as in book canon.

Additionally in the book AF does not live directly across the Dursleys on Privet Drive, but on another road nearby called Wisteria Walk, see the map of Little Whinging on the online HP-lexicon.  
><em>I know in the 5th film it appears as if she lives almost next door. Another significant difference!<em>

In MTMTE AF searches around in Little Whinging for Harry and finally goes - she walks - to the Dursley's house on Privet Drive to check if HP has returned there. However, AF does not tell the Dursleys that she found Dudley, instead she makes up some story.

Her visit so late at night seems strange to the Dursleys, makes them notice the time.  
>It is late, at least around ten pm. Their dear Dudley (DD) is not yet home! I believe Petunia will react exactly like any other mother would. She calls her son's best friend Piers Polkiss, and learns that he is home already at least half an hour. She ask him to call the other boys and to begin their search. That is my explanation of why Piers finds DD, he then goes and gets VD, who was also searching for his son along another street in the neighbourhood in chapter 11 of MTMTE.<p>

Finally MF comes back to Privet Drive; maybe half an hour later than in the book? Well, you might assume that his 'cauldron deal'_ (some crocked dealings mentioned in the book, but not the film)_ took a bit longer, OK? He meets AF. She scolds him and whacks him around the ears for abandoning his post when HP was in danger, exactly like she does in _A Peck of Owls _the book OOTP, because I believe that these two people would react just the same way they do in canon.

MF Apparates to London, to the Black town house on number twelve, Grimmauld Place. This is the Headquarter of the Order of the Phoenix, which is under the _Fidelius charm_ with AD as the _Secret Keeper_._  
>Another very important information that is completely missing in the 5th film, but is essential to understand why in DH (film 7.1) the Death Eaters cannot see and attack this house, until Yaxley follows Hermione (HG) and the boys in that desperate Dissaparation scene when they flee from the Ministry which ends in Ron getting severely injured, he is splinched.<em>

Now in MTMTE, HG opens the door and loudly questions MF about what happened. Walburga's portrait starts screaming, just like she always does at the slightest provocation. _(Well, in the book. In the film this picture is strangely quiet or mute!)_ The rest of the people hear the commotion and come into the hallway. Pure chaos, everybody talks over the other and so on as I described it from Sirius POV at the end of chapter 10.

We must assume that something similar also happened in book canon, (only that HP is relatively safe inside the Dursley's house) but JKR didn't describe it, because the reader sees everything only from Harry's POV. Nevertheless AD, AW, SB, RL and all the rest of the people at Headquarters, the Order of the Phoenix, somehow know what's going on at Privet Drive and later they come to pick HP up and escort him to Grimmauld Place. Given what happens in the 5th book, when Harry actually arrives with his guards after that nightly flight on the brooms across Surrey to central London, I think my version is not so unrealistic. What I changed for example is that AW is not at the Ministry that evening, but also at Headquarters.

MTMTE-timeline: In the meantime Harry has arrived at Malfoy Manor and the dark wizards talk about him and examine him, then LM, Nagini and HP go to another room while LV talks with GA.

It takes at least ten to fifteen minutes after MF Apparated from Privet Drive to London before SB leaves for Little Whinging, and that is the same time when GA Apparates back to the play park, at least an hour after the initial Dementor attack.

More time passes, before AW and RL get hold of Dumbledore. They first try a Floo call to Hogwarts. Consider, it is during the summer holidays, so I assumed that AD is not sitting in his office all day and night and he has no reason to be on alert, as he never got the notification from the Ministry that HP did magic and was expelled like we have to assume it happened in both book and film OOTP. So, RL sends a Patronus.

Eventually AD comes to Headquarters and questions MF about what happened. After that he travels to Hogwarts, (by using the Floo network) to his office, where these strange silver whirring devices somehow monitor HP's life force or vitals, the blood wards around the house on four Privet Drive, the tracker on HP's glasses and another monitors the tracker on his wand.

That again is not canon, but my (and other fanfics writers) guess. I do not know the purpose of all these silver huffing and whirring gadgets, which are mentioned several times in the books 2 – 7, in the Headmaster's office. They seem to belong to AD, because I believe that when Armando Dippet resided in this same office they are not there; see for example the second book COS the chapter with Tom Riddle's memories.

In MTMTE most likely one and a half hour or more has passed after HP arrived at Malfoy Manor, before the Headmaster establishes that HP, well at least his glasses and maybe his wand are not any more in England or Scotland.

Additionally the magical device that monitors the wards around the Dursley's house gives an alarm, because Petunia chucks HP out of the house and renounces kinship, what happens towards the end of chapter 11 of MTMTE. This scene is based again on the 5th book, the chapter _A Peck of Owls_, and not on the 5th film!

In the 5th book, AD somehow realizes that the wards around the Dursley's house are in imminent danger of collapsing, when VD attempts to throw HP out of the house in a fit of rage and concern for the welfare of his family. AD sends an instant, urgent Howler to Petunia to stop them from chucking the boy out.  
>The Howler shouts only three words, <em>"R<em>_emember my last!"_ Which is an allusion to the last letter Petunia got from AD, the one with baby HP on their doorstep.

- In the 5th film this whole scene in the Dursley's kitchen is missing, but I incorporated it in MTMTE in a slightly changed version.

I suppose that AD has indeed some monitoring gadgets in his office or perhaps in his pocket, because how else would he know what is going on inside the Dursley's house at this time of night in a matter of seconds? The reader of the chapter _A Peck of Owls _does not _know_ from whom this Howler is at this point in time, though, because we readers see everything only from HP's POV and learn the (probable) explanation why and how much later.

Now in MTMTE, HP, or at least HP's glasses seem to be somewhere farther north, but AD does not know right away where exactly. Remember, Voldemort banished them to Iceland. I just assume he can do something extraordinary like that, OK?  
>We are repeatedly told in canon that time and distance matter in magic.<br>So I think this is a reasonable assumption, that the tracking gadgets were devised to work in England and Scotland, where HP would normally be, either in Surrey close to London, or in London inner city (Diagon Alley) or Hogwarts or in Hogsmeade. Iceland is far away, so the tracking device can only vaguely give the direction northwards. And because of the large distance, only an exceptionally strong wizard like the Dark Lord (or Dumbledore in theory) could banish the glasses so far away. This cause is not something one would think about at once.

A much more logical explanation for AD and people like RL, who knows (in canon, see POA) how incredibly powerful HP is for his age, would be that the boy somehow Disapparated himself by accidental magic to flee from the Dementor attack in Surrey and just overshot his goal by a couple of miles, or maybe fifty miles. Hogwarts is far away to the north, in Scotland, so that would make sense to them that the tracking device for the glasses points northward. Alternatively, someone could have kidnapped the boy.

The tracking device for the wand seems to _malfunction_ to AD. He has no way of knowing if the holly wand is broken, destroyed, or is in a heavily warded area, or if the tracking charm was disabled by another wizard.  
>In MTMTE, Harry's wand is behind the protective wards of Malfoy Manor, the tracker disabled, so AD cannot discover its whereabouts so easily. Harry too is behind these ancient, very strong wards, so he is safe, protected from detection there.<p>

AD, or people from the Order must travel around and do a series of "Point me to Harry Potter- or his wand - or his glasses" spells to try to narrow the target area down, you know, like gradually zooming in on the geographic coordinates by means of triangulation. That was the whole point of this part of my plot, to create an adventure for Sirius to get the poor bloke out of that depressing Black town house so he (and for example Remus) have time to think about what he discovered so far. ;-)

So, paili-chan , these are all of the reasons why the Order does not even think to search for HP at Malfoy Manor so far.


	13. Chapter 13

AN-1: Hello dear readers,  
>thank you for your kind interest and adding my work to your Favs, Alerts and C2. I'm proud that I can reach you emotionally, whether to cause a smile, or tears of compassion, like you say in your reviews. A special thank you to the Brit-pickers Rach and BloodyRose90.<p>

In this chapter, in Harry's memories, I have paraphrased dialogue from the books/films 1 - 4 and directly quoted some sentences in _Italics_ from _HP and the Philosophers Stone_ and _HP and the Goblet of Fire_ by JK Rowling, Bloomsbury UK editions.

AN-2: Edit Warning (edited for the x-th time, I do try to find a balance between cutting out the worst parts, and leaving enough 'in' so the readers understand what happened... this is rated M for a reason ... you can skip markings with an X if you are in danger of flash backs due to past sexual abuse yourself)  
>LV uses Legilimency on HP and watches a wild mix of ordinary, nasty and cruel memories from the boy's childhood and Hogwarts' years including the ever increasing abuse and bullying during the past four weeks of Potter's 'summer holiday'. This gives the Dark Lord a good insight into Harry's troubled mind; of how the boy was mistreated by the Muggles, but also how he was skilfully manipulated by Dumbledore in the past, and how easily they (Voldemort and Malfoy) can in turn manipulate Potter to their own advantage.<p>

* * *

><p><span>Location: Malfoy Manor, still the night of 2nd <span>August 1995.

Voldemort had cancelled the Disillusion charm. Now that Potter and Lucius had noticed his presence he left the shadow of the doorway and sauntered into the drawing room. The two followed every step of his progress across the room towards them with rapt attention.

Lucius sat up straight and nodded at him in greeting, saying, "My Lord," which Voldemort allowed him. In this room and without any other Death Eaters present they were in a private setting, less formal, he didn't expect the blond to stand up and bow.

The boy moved as if he wanted to rise, but couldn't because of Nagini draped over his legs and wound all around him, pinning him to the couch with her weight, so he only bowed his neck in greeting, clearly unsure what to do or how to act.

The snake hissed in excitement, {Masster, masster, there you are! Look, look, the raven ssnakeling is sso much better. We bathed! I gave him a new name, Flattertongue. He sserves me well. Do you sssee?} Her upper body and head rose to the level of Harry's face, her tongue flicking rapidly.

{Yesss Nagini, I ssee. Enjoy him,} smirked Voldemort, stopping besides the sofa and looking down upon his familiar and the boy. He reached out and gently caressed Nagini's head. Potter kept his gaze demurely down, he seemed petrified from fear, his whole posture stiff and wary. The tall, pale wizard rounded the couch and took a seat, scrutinizing the young man from close up.

In a mirroring move, Nagini shifted her head and upper body too, facing her master, while the rest of her down to her tail tip curled swiftly tighter around Harry's torso and a second round over his arms, holding him securely down so that he couldn't jump up and attack Voldemort – she felt it was her duty to protect her master - and embracing the young wizard at the same time, softly hissing reassurances, because she felt his mounting fear, evident by the rapid pulse and breathing.

{Sshhh, it's all right little raven, masster only wantsss to sscent you, ssee you, talk to you,} she hissed. {Just hold sstill. Calm down. Look at him.}

Harry glanced up and inhaled sharply when Voldemort moved in so close. He could feel his warmth, and the strong, dark magical aura of the powerful wizard. He had to suppress a flinch and the instinct to scramble away. Not that he could move, with Nagini's incredibly strong, sinewy body fixing him to the spot and pressing in tightly all around him.

It was beginning to hurt. Harry felt that his just healed ribs couldn't expand enough to allow his lungs to take in much needed air, so he began to struggle, pushing against her and gasped out, {Pleasse, let go! Nagini, I need to brea-the.} He felt light-headed and short of fainting. {Ple-h-ase. Yh-ou hurt me-h!}

{Masster?} the snake hissed in question, already lessening the tension of her muscles somewhat.

{Not ssso tight, let go,} commanded Voldemort. {You do not want to ssuffocate your new toy, do you my dear?}

To Harry's immense relief she obeyed at once, hissing an apology. After taking a few deep breaths he said {Thank you,}, moving one hand to pet the back of the snake in reach. His scar throbbed in the rhythm of his racing heartbeat, but it wasn't hurting in searing agony like in the graveyard. That was good, and Nagini and Voldemort were obviously not intend on harming him on purpose, at least not right now. However, it was disconcerting to be restricted in his freedom of movement and to feel so laid bare under those burning, intense red eyes, as if the elder wizard could look to the bottom of his soul. Harry averted his eyes.

"Well, well, well, how is it to be reduced to my familiar's new pet? No words of defiance and protest, Mr Potter?" taunted Voldemort, curious if there was some spunk left in the boy.

Harry raised his gaze again and answered as calmly as he could, "No sir, I don't mind at all."

"Is that so?"

"I'm reasonably safe here," replied Harry, smiling tentative. "I've got healing potions, food and drink, a bath, nice clothes, inspiring magical company, so everything is much better compared to Surrey."

"Indeed." Voldemort studied him curiously, intrigued and somewhat warily, as if Harry was an unpredictable beast, while petting Nagini's head and neck absent-mindedly, whispering a few endearments in Parseltongue to her.

Point for me, thought Harry, Voldemort didn't expect this answer, although he should get used to the fact that I'm really rather here then at my uncle's not existent mercy.

Something like an amused smile played around Harry's lips for a moment at the complete absurdity of the situation. The mighty sorcerer feared by the wizarding world like no other to be even a tiny bit wary of him, an unarmed young man, bound tight in the coils of the large snake. As if Harry could harm the elder wizard in any way before he was cursed into next week, or killed by Nagini. For Harry was sure that as much as the snake liked him, she would protect her master, if she had to choose between the two of them in a fight.

When nothing else happened Harry calmed down and dared to look up again into the pale face, studying the Dark Lord like he was studied intently in return.

The wizard towering over him was so tall and looked so alien, nothing like the young, handsome, attractive diary Tom. He looks so strange up close, Harry thought; his face almost like a snake, with that rather flat nose, slits for nostrils, his skin is so white and scaly. These red eyes, like a snake demons with slit pupils. At least there is a short crop of hair growing on the crown of his head, maybe in time he will look better.

What a shame, he mused, young Tom had looked so elegant, striking. Well, Voldemort is absolutely striking, nobody else looks like this. Quite fascinating, compared to his rebirth he looks a bit less snake and more human, there was a suggestion of eyebrows and the hint of the bridge of his nose coming back. Perhaps he needs something more to return to his old looks, or Wormtail messed up the Rebirth potion? Harry let his gaze travel down over the neck, chest, shoulders, arms and legs of the man. The silk robe is wonderful, he thought, a nice colour, deepest blue; the folds seem to move like liquid, like rippling water flowing over him.

Harry imagined what the Dursleys would have to say if they met Voldemort strolling down Privet Drive in his long, silky robe, with Nagini slithering beside him. With burgundy, blood red robes, the flowing and rippling effect would be still more stunning, inspiring horror. Vernon and Petunia would call him an abnormal, disgusting weirdo, a good for nothing freak, worse than Potter. And Lord Voldemort would raise his long yew wand; shout out 'Avada Kedavra!' and - puff, no Dursleys anymore!

Harry suppressed a gleeful giggle and glanced up again, shaking his black fringe to the side with a quick, unconscious gesture, determined to endure Voldemort's scrutiny without flinching or making a sound.

He didn't know that his dull, pained, tired eyes took on a bright, Killing curse green twinkle, an inner emerald fire again because of his vivid fantasy.

Voldemort noticed and was uncertain what to make of Potter's rapidly changing emotions, displayed on his expressive face. First fearful and worried, changing to calm, contend, then curious combined with sudden malicious glee flashing in the emerald eyes. He had never seen such an expression on any prisoner in the first war. They normally were terrified out of their minds, or sometimes full of hate, righteous fury and obstinacy, typically former Gryffindors involved with the Aurors and the Order.

He could cast Legilimens word- and wandless to survey an unguarded mind, a very handy skill, and so he began to scan Potter's surface emotions and thoughts. They were a bewildering mix.

At the forefront of Potter's mind were curiosity and a healthy amount of respect and fear of him, mixed with – could that be admiration? For a second he saw his serpentine face, curious and intrigued, as it was just now, then scary in his fury, like he looked five weeks ago while taunting him and cursing the boy, blend over into the handsome, haughty face of his younger student self, smirking at him. What? Was Potter comparing them? But how did Potter know how the student Tom Marvolo Riddle had looked like as a prefect? Every little detail fit, the waves of his dark hair, the Slytherin uniform, the prefect badge.

Seeing his teenage face again so suddenly after fifty years, he noticed how similar the young Potter looked to his former self. Only Potter was famished, and lacking the air of arrogance, self-confidence and superiority Tom had possessed, and come to think of it, James Potter too. Harry Potter's thick black hair was an unruly mop compared to the sleek, well groomed hairstyle of young Tom's and Harry Potter had bright green eyes, while Tom's were dark, almost black.

He quickly moved on and searched for the unexpected emotion he had witnessed, the malicious glee. Voldemort saw snatches of a scene where he was walking down a boring, uniform Muggle street with square houses in identical small gardens, in all his unnaturally tall, deathly pale, red eyed, snake like glory, blood red robes dancing and whirling and a cloud of angry dark power crackling like an approaching thunderstorm around him.

How intriguing, Potter perceived him this way? This was no memory, but a fantasy, a daydream. He could see himself storming into a house, number four, raising his wand and casting the Killing curse at – three Muggles, two very large, fat men, similar like father and son, and a bony, horse-faced, thin woman. They all fell down on a pristine white and black tiled kitchen floor.

Potter giggled in glee, satisfaction and a feeling of triumph washed over him. Did he truly wish that Lord Voldemort would kill these Muggles? It appeared so. They must be his aunt, uncle and cousin.

* * *

><p>Voldemort probed deeper. Disappointment. Anger. Hurt. Fear. Rage. Frustration. Loneliness. Sadness. Bitterness. Hate. Potter's soul was a decidedly dark place.<p>

* * *

><p>Memories flew by, again that immaculate, shiny kitchen floor. The white and black squares dominated everything, as if he was much smaller. A brief impression of a thin child with pale skin and black hair, a much younger Potter, on hands and knees, scrubbing and mopping this floor with his small hands, all raw, red, aching from too much manual work and hot water, while his stomach ate itself up in hunger cramps and his heart ached in sorrow and loneliness.<p>

Young Potter standing on some stool in the same kitchen, trying to stir a soup, a stew in a large pot on the stove. The cooking food smelled mouthwatering good, he was so hungry, but he wasn't allowed to eat it.

Then standing on a stool again at the sink. Washing some plates and pots by hand. Ravenously stuffing a piece of potato into his mouth, snatching up a bit of salad, licking at some food crumbs on a dirty plate, looking furtively around, he had to be quick, before anyone noticed.

Standing at the stove again, stirring a large frying pan full of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages; Potter quickly turned the food, scooped it hastily out of the pan onto three plates, but one piece of bacon fell to the floor. He heard a shriek and felt a whack, was falling down, and cringing away from a blow with the same hot frying pan, boiling hot grease flying through the air and dripping on his skin, burning pain; a woman shrieking at him in fury, disgust and hate.

Young Potter curling up and crying, 'Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to, I'll be good, please stop Auntie P'tunia!'

A huge, fat man with a red face shouting foul words and wielding a belt, trashing the small child Potter which crawled away into some dark space, a cupboard, crying and pleading he was sorry and would be good, would clean up the mess. Finally the beating stopped and the cupboard door was slammed shut behind the small boy, leaving him crying miserably in almost darkness.

The memory morphs into the older, teenager Potter like he looks today, standing in a hot, stuffy room facing a beige-green wall and a barred window. His hands are stretched out in front, holding onto a desk. The young man was actually gripping the corners of the desk to remain upright. His back burning like fire from something long and flexible, hitting him again and again from behind.

This Potter didn't cry or scream; he bit his lip and endured the punishment stoically, closing his ears to the litany of hurtful words being screamed at him from the fat man beating him, "Useless freak! Abomination! You should've died with your worthless parents! You'll not endanger my family any more!"

* * *

><p>Different scenery, Potter of the same age is outside in a garden, picking weeds, the weather is sunny, hot.<p>

This must have happened very recently, a short time ago. Voldemort can feel Potter's shame and agitation. The young wizard wishes he could stop the memory, but he cannot.

* * *

><p>A gang of five boys come around the corner, of a house, jeering and laughing. They spit on Potter who is crouching on the dusty ground. One boy kicks the bucket with the weeds over. Potter tries to ignore them, to resume his work, concentrating on keeping his magic in check.<p>

'I mustn't do it, I'm not allowed to curse them. But oh, how I'd like to pay you all back,' he thinks.

One of the boys, the fattest and largest, tells the others that Potter screams at night, that he has bad dreams and cries for his mum and dad, and often for this Cedric. They taunt him, they push him around, ask him if Cedric is his boyfriend and why Potter is afraid of his cushions at night.

Potter is angry at them, he jumps up, raises his arm to fight back, but his arms are grabbed, twisted back, fierce pain shoots through him. One of the boys punches him into the gut, he doubles over, gasping for air. Potter struggles, tries to break free, to run away, but they are five to one.

They grab him and drag him into a garden shed. The door bangs shut with a final ominous clang. Its rather dark and very hot in there. They beat him until he is on the ground and stays there, dizzy, sweaty, blood trickling out of his broken nose, wheezing, doubled over from the pain in his chest and stomach. Kicks from all sides jerk his body. The mood changes rapidly. The gang is high on power.

"On your knees, yes Potter, that's where you belong, right?" One boy pulls at Potter's hair, until he kneels before him, wheezing for breath.

"Your such a wanker!" Another boy taunts him.

More foul words are shouted at Potter from the members of the gang.

"Tossbag!"

"Doormat!"

"Thicko!"

"Eh, I guess Potter wanks every night when he thinks of this Cedric, what d'ya think?" A thin, stringy boy says, grinning evilly.

"No wonder he is so stupid, wanking all the time," one of the others comments.

"Do you love Cedric, Potter?" asks the ringleader, the huge, fat boy. "Are you his whore?"

"No! Sod off! Leave me alone!" Potter screams.

* * *

><p>X<p>

"Shut up!" Whack! The fat one backhands him, Potter keels over backwards.

"Do you think anyone would want this ugly bag of bones?" One of the boys spits on him.

"Maybe another weirdo? Must be a reason why he always dreams of that Cedric," sniggers a blond boy.

The boys jeer at him, laughing, taunting. "I bet he his!" "Bloody poofter!" "Yeah! Flipping fairy!"

The fat boy kicks him. Potter tries to crawl away, but his effort is futile, legs and kicking feet surround him on all sides.

"What do you learn at your school, Potter, with all those weirdos like you?" the stringy, dark haired boy asks mockingly. "Giving hand-jobs or blow-jobs? Or have you progressed to fucking yet?"

Icy fear washes over Harry, he cries out, "No! That's not true! Sod off!"

"Nah, guess that's on the agenda for next year, isn't it?" The blond boy looks at the others, seeking approval. The stringy and the fat boy grin at him, nodding.

"Let's see if he is any good, shall we?" The fat boy edges the others on.

"Nooo! Stop it! Let go!" Potter squirms, struggles and kicks, but it's no use. Two boys brutally hold his arms back left and right, the fat one grabs his hair and nearly pulls it out with the roots, pushing Potter 's face near his crotch.

'When did Dudley have time to open his jeans?' shoots through Potter's mind.

"Noo! I don't want to! Leave me alone, you sick bastards!" Potter protests, trying to avert his head.

Whack! Another clout to the ear, his head is ringing, he is so dizzy.

"Open up, now suck me!" the fat boy called Dudley commands. "Don't you dare to bite, Potter, or I'll kill your ruddy bird!"

And Potter gives up and complies. They take turns using him.

X

* * *

><p>Voldemort watched the memory enfold in mounting rage. How dare they attack a wizard and especially someone like Potter like that! Muggle filth!<br>But, Potter's self-control is admirable; it is quite a feat that he does not blast them all back with accidental magic or kills them outright. Does he believe that the Ministry will expel him from Hogwarts if he retaliates? That must be the reason.

* * *

><p>Afterwards the gang let Potter lie in the shed, shivering and shaking from shock, fury and disgust, coughing and crying, his head, face and chest covered in blood, dirt, and cum. He retches again, but because there wasn't any food in his hungry stomach in the first place, no vomit comes up, only sour bile.<br>When he doesn't hear their voices any more, Potter crawls to the back yard, careful to stay out of sight of the neighbour's house and uses the water from the hosepipe to clean himself as quickly as possible. He rinses his mouth and spits on the ground, he has to get the vile taste out. Then he quickly drinks the wonderfully cool water, always looking around furtively, because if Dudley comes back ...

Potter diligently resumes his work, first cleaning up the inside of the shed, then picking weeds and later sweeping the garden path and the driveway – if he isn't finished by six o'clock, when Petunia and Vernon come back from town, he'll get another punishment and no dinner, again. But all the while he fantasizes what he'll do to his cousin and the members of his gang when he's seventeen and can leave this hell hole, can finally use magic.

'Maybe Voldemort isn't so wrong in hating Muggles,' slitters through his mind.

* * *

><p>Watching the scene fade, Voldemort is disgusted that something like this happened to Potter right under the Order's nose, yet he is also pleased. The abuse by the Muggles is appalling, but that the Boy Who Lived feels such rage and hate towards them as a result is a positive development. Did those boys bully him on other occasions?<p>

* * *

><p>A sudden change of scene. Potter is small and running, running over a Muggle school yard, chased by a jeering gang of boys, led by the fat one. Potter is running down a street. He is small, swift, so he manages to outrun them, then hides in some bushes, shivering from exhaustion and dread.<p>

Potter again, alone, young and small, hungry, in some Muggle school classroom.

* * *

><p>Voldemort realized that must be Potter's old primary school.<p>

* * *

><p>Other children coming into the room, laughing and jeering at him, they are making fun of his too large, mismatched second hand clothes, ugly dorky glasses. His homework lies shredded underneath his desk, the bag emptied out, his pencils broken and strewn all over the floor.<p>

A teacher walks in, reprimanding Potter for the mess. A large, fat boy is laughing and high fifing with another, thinner boy. Potter is angry, this was all so unfair. He stares up at the teacher, who scolds him, orders him to clean up and don't be such a nuisance. Suddenly the teacher's hair turnes blue! The class laughs and shrieks and points at the teacher. Potter stares uncomprehending, how did the teacher's hair turn blue all of a sudden? The teacher looks very confused, and then turns angry on the small boy. "Potter, come along, to the headmaster's office, now! I've had enough of your insolence!"

* * *

><p>Another classroom scene, but this was at Hogwarts. The potion's classroom. Harry and the other students look like children, first years. Snape towers over them.<p>

"_Our new celebrity...__"_

"_Fame isn't everything,..."_

Scenes swirl into each other, years pass, but it is always the same. Snape taunting Potter, provoking him, treating him unfair, humiliating him at every opportunity. The Slytherin students are laughing. To Harry, this is exactly the same as with his bullying cousin and his gang. Slytherins are evil. Snape hates him for no reason, just for existing.

Snape speaks in a low voice to an older teen aged Potter, alone. Severus sounds angry, menacing.

"_To me Potter, you are nothing but__ a nasty little boy who considers rules to be beneath him."_

"_One more night-time stroll into my office, and you will pay!"_

Suddenly, Karkaroff comes into the classroom, very nervous and worried, he talks to Snape, shows him his inner forearm. Potter listens in, Snape is furious.

* * *

><p>Ah, Voldemort realized, this was last spring!<p>

* * *

><p>Darkness. A different memory.<p>

A very young Potter locked in the nearly dark cupboard, holding a weak, wavering flash light, watching a spider weave its net in a corner. More spiders scuttle over the floor close to his feet. His body is sore. He is so weak, sore, hungry and thirsty. The air stinks from urine, Potter's gaze sweeps over a bucket in a corner, and two empty water bottles lying next to the door. He had been so careful with the water, but now he had no more. He is so thirsty. He is all alone. Nobody will ever come to rescue him. He will die here, lost and forgotten. They had forgotten him.

* * *

><p>Potter in the hallway in his relatives' house, staring at a letter. For him? Who would write to him? Such a strange envelope and script, he has never seen anything like it. The address is <em>H. Potter. The Cupboard under the stairs. 4 Privet Drive. Little Whinging. Surrey.<em> His uncle grabs the letter.

His uncle ripping up and burning many more letters. Driving in a car. A hotel room, then a small island in a storm, a shack. Howling wind and rain, a storm rages outside. Potter is so hungry and cold. He looks at a watch in the dark, it's midnight, today is his eleventh birthday.

A loud crash. Abruptly Hagrid is towering over him, reaching out a huge hand with – another letter to _H. Potter. The Floor. Hut-on-the-Rock. The Sea._

People, his aunt and uncle shouting, arguing with Hagrid, who explains the basics to Harry. Snatches of sentences rush into each other.

"_You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left for him?"_

"_Yer are a wizard, Harry." _

"_I'm a what?" _

"_You knew I was a wizard?"_

"_A scandal! Harry Potter not knowing his own story…" _

"_You Know Who killed them." _

"_Never __wondered how you got that mark on your forehead? That's when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh."_

"_An' you was only a baby, an' you lived." _

A green flash of light, a cold, cruel laugh.

"_Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see…"_

"_Great __man, Dumbledore."_

Harry arriving in the Leaky Cauldron, the entrance to Diagon Alley, to go shopping with Hagrid. People, strangers badgering him, crowding around him as soon as they recognize him. They all see a small boy with black hair, glasses and The Scar. Only the scar, not him, just Harry. He is famous, because his parents were murdered by a mad man. Harry hates the attention.

A brief image of Gringots, the Goblins; riding the cart down the first time. A vault full of golden coins. Harry is overwhelmed, gob-smacked. He really has money from his dead parents? He isn't dirt poor?

Then Harry is at Madame Malkins. A pale, blond boy standing next to him, both are fitted for robes. Harry wears rags, while the other boy wears expansive clothes. The blond boy brags and talks about things Harry has never heard of. What is Quidditch, a racing broom, Slytherin or Hufflepuff? Harry doesn't like the arrogant blond boy at all, he reminds him of his cousin Dudley, a spoiled brat, a bully who is only strong with his gang behind him.

Later, Harry asks Hagrid what does Hufflepuff and Slytherin mean? He answers, _"There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one."_

Harry in Kings Cross station, searching for the entrance to the platform, scared he won't find it in time. He does not know how to get through. He is following a group of people, a plumb woman and her five children, all with red hair, talking loudly. _" - packed with Muggles of course – "Now what is the platform number__?" "Nine-and-three-quarters,"_ says a little girl. Harry asks the woman for help, she explains to him how to do it and that her son Ron is going the first time too.

* * *

><p>That must be Molly Weasley. Voldemort wondered at the significance of this memory. Now why is she on the Muggle side at all, talking loudly with her children, asking her own daughter for the platform number? Why didn't Hagrid explain to Potter in advance how to find platform nine-and-three-quarters?<p>

* * *

><p>The scene changes, because now Harry has managed to get onto the other side where the scarlet steam engine, the Hogwarts Express is waiting for him. Two older boys, gingers, help him with his trunk.<p>

Harry and the younger, lanky, freckled ginger boy are sitting in a compartment. _"Are you really Harry Po__tter?"_ He points at Harry's forehead and stares.

The boys talk, telling each other about their families. The Weasley boy's family is large and not wealthy. Harry feels instant empathy and sympathy; he mentions not knowing about magic or his own fame until very recently and always having to wear Dudley's old clothes. He is so happy to have found a friend, Ron is his first friend after Hagrid. If only the other boy would not stare at his scar so much.

* * *

><p>X<p>

Another memory unravels, with entirely different emotions. Rage, fury, fear, shame. Potter is much older, like he is now, so this must have happened this summer.

"Hey, freak, come here. Time to clean up the shed," commands the fat boy.

The fat boy and the stringy one laugh roaringly.

"Strip!" They push Potter around, punch him in the face, the stomach, kicks his legs away.

Potter is struggling against someone holding him down. Punches rain down on his head, the nose long broken. They hit and grab him everywhere, arms, chest, abdomen, back, bottom, thighs, groin; so many brutal hands, they rip of his oversized, faded clothes. It must be at least three or four persons; male voices; they are jeering, taunting him, guffawing. Dudley's gang!

An overwhelming feeling of hatred, shame and helplessness tearing at his insides.

'I mustn't do magic, I must not! Fucking Ministry! Fucking Dudley!' Harry coughs, gasps for air, the blood is flowing from his nose getting in his mouth and airways.

"You're such a freak, Potter," jeers one of the boys.

Suddenly he feels a sharp, burning intense pain in his lower back. A sickening, burning smell fills the shed.

The voices laugh cruelly at him.

"F.R.E.A.K," says one, spelling the word out.

"Now everybody can read it!" Another boy crows gleefully.

Potter screaming, "No! Stop! Let me go! Stop it, you bastards!" while nearly suffocating, fighting in vain against someone much stronger and heavier.

It hurts, it burns.

X

* * *

><p>Stop! Voldemort tears himself away from the memory, searches for another one. Something connected to Hogwarts.<p>

* * *

><p>Hogwarts, the hospital wing at night. Potter, exhausted, injured, sitting on a bed, talking to Dumbledore. Memories of the graveyard, of Lord Voldemort's reddish-black, raw homunculus body, ghastly to look upon; of that other young man, the Hufflepuff Champion, Cedric Diggory dying from Pettigrew's Killing curse right in front of Potter. Guilt, overwhelming guilt tearing Potter apart.<p>

Hospital wing, again. Fudge and Dumbledore arguing. Snape striding purposefully forward, showing his forearm with the Dark Mark to Fudge, who recoiled disbelieving, horrified.

"_There," said Snape. "There, the Dark Mark… Every Death Eater had the si__gn burnt into him by the Dark Lord."_

Potter watches Dumbledore talking to Fudge, and after that to several other people. Mrs Weasley, a ginger man that must be her son, Sirius Black and finally, again to Severus Snape!

"_Severus," said Dumbledore, "you know__ what I must ask you to do. If you are ready … if you are prepared…"_

"_I am," said Snape._

"_Then, good luck," said Dumbledore._

* * *

><p>...<p>

Another place and time, night time, a dark pathway, a fence on the side. He is following a dark shape. A sense of urgency, of being watched. Darkness. Cold, piercing cold. Potter turns around, searching, worried. Suddenly someone shouts at him, abrupt fierce pain, fists hit him, on the head, in the stomach. Potter falls on the ground, curling up, clutching his stomach, gasping for air.

Something ice cold, rotten, horrible over him, it grabbed him by the neck. It hurt so bad, his neck was sore from earlier, when Vernon – an ugly, red face appeared, a fat man choking him, snarling, furious. No air, he couldn't breathe! Rattling, loud, foul breath, sucking at him. He squirms and struggles and hits rough fabric, hard bones, something that feels too soft, like fouling flesh – it was useless.

He is scared. He can't see anything. He can't scream, but he concentrates on Expecto Patronum. A happy memory, flying on a broom, being free. But only a wisp of silvery light oozes out of his wand. Not strong enough. The Dementor is suffocating him, squeezing his neck, covering his mouth, sucking at him. He can't get any fresh air into his lungs!

.

A woman screams, shrill laughter, the Killing Curse, bright green light.

A cold voice speaking, 'Bow to death, Harry.'

.

Overwhelming terror and the sense of helplessness. He wants to run away, but everywhere he turns he cannot go. Harry feels so disgustingly weak and pathetic. He should be dead, that would be better for everyone.

.

No!

A Dementor is killing him, trying to suck his soul out!

Suddenly, a loud commanding voice is speaking, he doesn't understand, but the Dementor loosens his grip, and Harry falls, he crashes painfully onto the ground.

* * *

><p>Voldemort withdrew aghast, breathing as rapidly as the scared, ashamed boy sitting in front of him. He blinked his eyes and stared into Potter's wide-eyed, sweaty, pale face. Normally he would have enjoyed unearthing such hurtful memories to cruelly torment a prisoner with, but not tonight.<p>

Different circumstances, another time, but eerily similar. Viciously slamming the door shut in his own mind scape he distanced himself from these feelings, this weakness. He didn't want to remember that part of his life, when he hated himself and everybody around him. He was sure that he had purged himself of this part of him. The past didn't matter. He'd killed them all long ago.

I will not feel sorry for Harry bloody Potter! I suffered for over thirteen years; it's only fair that the child who caused my downfall suffered too, Voldemort ranted in his mind.

However, it is fascinating how clever and ruthless Dumbledore has manipulated the boy using the naïve, trusting oaf Hagrid and the loyal blood traitor Weasleys. A brilliant plan, to forge an obedient, loyal soldier who knows next to nothing, but hates me and all Slytherins on principle – until the old codger miscalculated badly. I don't think Dumbledore planned this, Voldemort pondered; the level of abuse this summer was just too much. Potter cannot stand it anymore. No wonder he grabbed the first chance to escape and said he'd rather die, than go back. There is so much pain, frustration, anger and hate hidden deep inside this boy.

That is good, excellent. Potter is ready for revenge, ready to leave the Light side. Now I must win his loyalty, Lucius' assessment was accurate. Bye the way, why was Potter sorted into Gryffindor at all? With his past, he should have gone to Slytherin without any questions.

But what was that scene in the Hogwarts hospital wing? Severus had such a good explanation why he came to the graveyard two hours late. He'd sworn he was hoodwinking the Headmaster and was only loyal to Lord Voldemort.

It was interesting how deeply Potter mistrusted his potions teacher. Voldemort had expected that Potter feared and hated Severus, that he believed Severus to be a true Death Eater, intent on hurting and humiliating him. But Potter feared most that Severus would tell Dumbledore and that somehow Potter would be forced back to the Muggles, who had treated the boy horrendously. That explained that vivid, realistic fantasy of Voldemort killing the Dursleys.

"Potter," he said as neutrally as he could, while rising to his feet.

"Yes, sir?" Harry whispered, keeping his eyes downcast. He was shaking like a leaf, still raw from the experience of living through the often horrible, shameful memories again. How had Voldemort done that? He'd somehow poked around in Harry's head, stirring up numerous images of his wretched life.

"You did well not to resist me. The Muggles who hurt you shall pay. Rest now," the Dark Lord said, brushing over the boy's raven hair in a soothing gesture, ignoring the gasp and wince, before his hand reached down to pet the snake in an equal move. {Good girl. Give him more ssspace, easse up. You both did well,} he praised his snake.

Nagini hissed pleased, {Yesss, masster.}

Voldemort walked to the wing-back chair opposite and sat down, leaning back and resting one leg elegantly over his knee in a purposefully relaxed pose, contemplating the enigma named Harry Potter.

Nagini's nose nudged Harry's hands that were gripping her body tightly without him noticing, as she started to loosen her coils, freeing his arms again. {Hey little one, no need to be sso tensse, itsss only masster. Now don't pinch me, sstroke me.}

{Oh, I'm ssorry, oh gloriousss one,} apologized Harry, while thinking, 'Only Master,' easy for her to say that. That's Lord Voldemort! He swallowed thickly, feeling his heart pound away in his chest, confirming he was alive. Yet.

He had expected Voldemort to taunt him, because he was so weak and couldn't defend himself, but the man seemed disturbed and incensed by what he had seen in Harry's memories, same as when he had seen the state of Harry's body without clothes. The dominating emotion of Voldemort seemed to be hate and rage at the Muggles who had hurt Harry so, and rage directed at Dumbledore for allowing this to happen. Harry didn't know where he got this impression, but he was sure.

I must think of something else, he firmly told himself. Loosening his grip he resumed to massage and caress the scaly skin of the snake, while letting out a breath of tension and slowly looking up until his gaze met the crimson stare.

{Yesss, that's better,} hissed Nagini contently there while.

After a moment of intently staring at Harry, Voldemort shifted his focus to Lucius, who was sitting across from him on the couch, waiting expectantly, watching him and alternatively the boy with the snake on the other couch in silence.

{Come to me, Lucsiusss,} commanded Voldemort softly in Parseltongue, beckoning with his forefinger. He changed his position, legs parted and both feet now resting on the ground, and leaned forward a bit.

The blond rose, walked the two steps towards his master, and sank in a fluid motion down on his knees at Voldemort's feet without a word. Twirling his wand a moment around them, the Dark Lord cast some charm, while stretching out his left hand toward Malfoy, briefly caressing the platinum blond silky mane, before his fingers glided lower over his temple, the high cheek bones to cup the pointed chin and tilted Lucius head up a bit. Staring into the slate grey eyes he said something. Lucius nodded and seemed to answer affirmative, and then they both looked eyes, somehow communicating without words.

Harry's eyes widened, his eyebrows shot upwards and his lips opened in a surprised gasp, watching this scene. He couldn't hear them anymore; he didn't know what he should think. He'd heard the command and to his surprise Malfoy had reacted at once, so the wizard must understand some words in the language of the snakes.

{Nagini, what doess your masster do?} Harry asked astonished and perturbed.

{Hmmmm?} Nagini needed a moment to snap out of her relaxed state of mind, enjoying Harry's massage. {Oh, our massster is just speaking with his deliciouss sservant, and he casst a ssilencing ssspell, so you can't hear them.}

{Oh. I ssuppose they talk about me, then?}

{Yess, of coursse.} Nagini answered. {Masster is very curiouss about you. He will want to know about what you two talked, and how hiss ssservant healed you, everything what happened before masster came into thiss room.} She didn't tell Harry that her master already knew some of what had passed in the meantime, observing the boy through her eyes.

{But – but, that's Malfoy! He, he kneelss at masterss feet, so very close. He allowss him to touch him – ssso so – I don't know. And why do you call him deliciousss? His name is Luciuss Malfoy.}

Harry didn't know how to describe the interaction. They looked so intimate, the way Voldemort had caressed the long shiny hair, how he held Lucius, forcing eye contact, or was it more of an invitation, but with the understanding between them that refusal was out of the question? Lucius had not reared back, had not tried to evade the touch, but actually leaned into his master's hand. Harry supposed that Voldemort now looked through Malfoy's memories just like he had done to Harry, only that Malfoy wasn't surprised or frightened. The scene was so – so intense, so weird. Harry had never in his life seen something or experienced like this.

In comparison with Harry, a small half-starved teenager, soon to be fifth year student, Mr Malfoy seemed far superior, a tall, handsome adult, an arrogant man, a strong, dangerous wizard, and to see this wealthy, classy, powerful man acting so subservient, so submissive towards Voldemort was most strange to watch. It had not looked as if the elder wizard had forced or threatened him.

But then Harry remembered the earlier scene in the study, how Malfoy and Avery had acted, and the scene at the graveyard. All the Death Eaters had quaked in terror when they beheld their resurrected master for the first time after thirteen, almost fourteen years. They seemed in awe of him, elated that he was back and scared out of their wits at the same time. He recalled how they had bowed or knelt, some even crawled to Voldemort's bare feet and kissed the hem of his robe, demonstrating their loyalty and submission. Harry wondered why these men acted this way.

Nagini hissed in amused chuckles, {Ah, you don't know them, you jusst arrived tonight, but you will in time. The pale, light haired one is deliciouss, a good sservant. One of the favouritess of masster, desspite that he made ssome errorsss in the passst; he didn't ssearch for masster as he ssshould have. Masster knowss him for many yearsss, ssince the two legsss you call Malfoy wass a young boy, jusst like you. All his sservants vie for masster's attention. They want to be near him, in his pressence, they deeply fear him, but they also feel good when he is pleassed with them. Masster is often harssh with his sservantss, but that only insspiress them to try harder to win his approval. He doessn't ssspeak to or touch the otherss thisss way, only very few.}

{Oh,} said Harry, still astonished. {Who iss another favourite?}

{You will learn in time, my sssneaky raven,} replied Nagini.

Harry watched Voldemort and Lucius. After a while, Voldemort released the blond wizard and allowed him to stand up again. Lucius sat down on the couch end adjacent Voldemort's chair. They spoke intently some more, twice Lucius turned to look over at Harry and back to his master, speaking urgently and even gesturing towards the boy and Nagini. Voldemort scowled, he seemed not very pleased with the other wizard's arguments, but nodded eventually.

Harry huffed, running his free hand through his hair, messing it up even further, while he scratched on top of Nagini's head with his other hand. It irritated and worried him that the two wizards discussed him this way, spoke over his head and he couldn't listen in.

{Be patient, little raven,} admonished the snake, pressing into his hand.

{But Nagini, I'm worried. Your masster frownss; he sseems to be annoyed, well he's not pleassed with whatever Malfoy ssaid. Or did. I don't know. Or did I do ssomething wrong? Are they both angry at me? What if your masster decidess I'm a nuisssance, not worth hiss time and he'll kill me?}

{Ssshhhhh, no, no, little one. Don't worry.} Nagini soothed him. {You did nothing wrong. Masster isss not angry at you at all. He isss very angry at thossse humanss-without-magic that hurt you, at the Evil-One to allow this to happen, and for ssome reasson a little bit angry at his sservant, jealousss.}

{How do you know that?} Harry asked, puzzled.

{I feel, of courssse,} Nagini stated, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.

Harry bit his lip, but tried to take comfort in her words and to relax, continuing with petting and massaging her long, sinewy body. He was so tired and exhausted. The snake curled once more around his back, ribs and stomach and rested her head next to his forearm, nose tip under his elbow, snuggling in. Harry felt sleep pull at him too, so he leaned against her warm body and the cushions and soon they both dozed off.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer and general warnings, see chapter 1.

* * *

><p>Finally Voldemort swished his wand about, cancelling the silencing charm. "Go ahead," he ordered.<p>

The sudden sound of his voice startled Harry awake at once; he blearily looked up, blinking his eyes.

Malfoy rose, affirming whatever they had decided on with a curt bow. "As you wish, master."

He briskly walked over to Harry and Nagini. "Potter, get up and follow me."

"Yes, sir. One moment, please," Harry replied in English, before switching to Parsel, hissing, {Pleassse, wake up lovely ssnake lady. Would you move off me, Nagini?}

{Mussst you go? It isss so comfortable here, you're nice and warm, and I wasss just napping,} complained the snake.

{Nagini!} called Voldemort. {Let Potter sstand up. I need to ssspeak with you, my pet.}

{Don't ssend Flattertongue away, master,} Nagini demanded.

{He sshall ssstay close by in the manor, on this floor,} Voldemort told her. {Come here, my sssweet.}

Hearing this, the huge snake began to slither around Harry, rapidly unwinding her coils until she reached the floor. With quick winding movements she covered the distance to Voldemort and began to climb up onto his chair. Twirling his wand again he voicelessly erected another silencing charm around them, muffling out the conversation he took up with his familiar.

Harry rose slowly and stood there a moment wobbly, feeling dizzy. The room seemed to sway around him; black spots were dancing in his field of vision. Hastily he stretched out an arm to grab hold of the sofa backrest, but in that moment he felt a hand at his elbow and a warm presence besides him, steadying him. Malfoy. Harry suppressed a flinch.

"Sorry, sir," Harry mumbled, mortified that he was showing such weakness. Damn it, he hated to be so vulnerable. "It's nothing, I'm fine."

"You are not fine Potter. Can you walk?"

"Yes, yes, sir. I'll manage."

Malfoy took hold of his elbow and steered Harry towards the door to the study. The passed through the office, where Harry noticed a round, grey stone basin with carved symbols standing on the desk, which had not been there before.

Malfoy also looked at the basin, asking, "Do you know what that is?"

"Yes sir, it is a Pensieve. I've once seen a similar one at Hogwarts," answered Harry.

"Oh, have you? Where?"

"Dumbledore's office."

Malfoy nodded, commenting, "Ah, of course. Now, sit down for a moment." He ushered Harry into one of the chairs, then turned around and walked back to the desk.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he inhaled deeply, obviously concentrating. Then he pulled out his wand and lifted the tip to his left temple. Harry watched intrigued, suddenly understanding what was happening as he remembered the headmaster doing exactly the same. Malfoy slowly moved the wand away, and a silvery memory strand clung to it. He dropped it into the Pensieve and repeated the process again, before walking over to Harry. "Come along, then."

Harry sighed as he stood up, grateful for the firm hand on his upper arm that steadied him, while Malfoy opened the outer door. They stepped into a dark hallway, lit only with a few candles in brackets on the wall. He wondered where they might be going, sleepily following the older man down the corridor until he stopped.

There was a heavy wooden door to the left, while to the right a staircase went downward. Malfoy tapped the door with his wand and murmured something under his breath that Harry couldn't catch.

"Come here Potter." Malfoy directed him. "Put your hand flat onto the door, inside this carved ornament; touch it with your palm. Yes, exactly like that."

Harry obeyed wondering why this was necessary. He felt a tingling of magic and then a sudden prick in his forefinger, as if a needle had stabbed him. Wrenching his hand back he inspected his finger, which showed a tiny wound. Casting an accusing glance at the other wizard, he asked reproachfully, "What was that for?"

"Wards, keying you in Potter," retorted Malfoy. "A drop of your blood is necessary as identification. A small sacrifice for the protection offered."

"Oh, right." Harry eyes widened. A different kind of magic again, something new. There was so much to learn about the wizarding world outside of Hogwarts.

But what did that mean, 'Wards, keying you in? Identification and sacrifice?' Was this Dark magic? He considered different possibilities. Did it mean that the door would recognize him now? For what purpose, what protection? Was it like the portrait door to the Gryffindor common room, letting only people in who knew the correct password? Or would the door keep Harry inside, would it stay closed when he tried to open it, like a prison cell? That was probably what it was; it made more sense to Harry's tired mind.

Malfoy opened the door, flicking his wand to light up some candles inside. He stepped aside to let the young man enter, pushing him forward with his hand in the small of Harry's back, then followed after him, closing the door.

Harry spun around, suddenly wide awake, adrenaline pumping through him. He stared briefly at Malfoy and the door, before looking quickly around, taking in the layout. It was a bedroom, similar to the Dark Lord's quarters only that this room was smaller, but it was still rather large compared to Harry's prison cell at the Dursleys.

Yellow-grey Corsham stone walls mostly covered with intricately woven tapestries in different shades of green, black, brown and beige, but without his glasses Harry couldn't make out much of the details. There was a white shape lying on a forest floor, which reminded him of the poor unicorn that had lain dead in the Forbidden Forest. Along one wall stood a four poster bed with a small side table, covered in green and light grey sheets, blankets and pillows. A wardrobe, a low bookshelf and a cosy looking overstuffed two-seater couch next to the window and a fireplace completed the layout. The furniture looked old, but obviously of very good quality, the carved wood shining in a warm, dark brown. At the right side was another door, leading presumably to a bathroom.

Fear clawed at Harry's heart. Why had Malfoy brought him here? What had Voldemort and Malfoy agreed upon? What did this man want to do with him? Or to him?

Lucius noticed the suddenly white face of the boy, how he breathed very fast and shallow, how he looked franticly around like some animal in a trap searching for an escape route. What in Merlin's name was wrong now?

He quickly scanned the room. Was there anything that could scare the boy? No doxy's, ghost or ghoul, no portraits of stern looking old men or dangerous beasts or monsters. The tapestries showed just serene forest and landscape scenes; in a clearing under the moon a unicorn was lying asleep, a chestnut centaur was standing guard over it in the background between almost black fir trees.

Was there something here that reminded Potter of something bad that had happened to him? Maybe back in first year, when Draco had told a wild tale about a baby dragon and of a nightly detention in the Forbidden Forest, during which he and Potter had stumbled upon a dead unicorn and some dreadful bloodsucking creature. But that was three years ago.

Harry had backed away from Lucius in the meantime; he stood there trembling, breathing raggedly, and inching slowly towards the corner of the room near the wardrobe. That he was near a panic attack was clear to see, but why?

"Potter? Potter, what is wrong? Why are you afraid of this room?" Lucius asked puzzled, walking slowly towards the younger wizard, who backed further up until his back hit the wall.

Potter stood in a defensive stance, shoulders slightly hunched, the fists balled, arms rigidly at his side, as if was forcing himself to stand still, face a blank mask, keeping his eyes downcast.

Lucius was surprised and irritated. "Potter, there is no reason to be afraid. There is nobody else hiding here, no ghosts or monsters."

When Potter didn't react or look up, Lucius stepped closer, asking, "Potter, tell me, what scares you so?"

"It's a bedroom," replied the boy softly, almost inaudible, still keeping his eyes downcast.

"Yes, of course," sneered Lucius. Honestly, was the boy daft? "This is a guest room, so a bed and some other furniture are to be expected. Why are you so afraid to be in a bedroom all of a sudden? You didn't panic in the Dark Lord's rooms this way. And look at me when I speak to you."

Harry stood there, leaning against the wall, still breathing much too fast. Slowly he raised his head and dared to look up at Lucius, whose steely gaze was drilling holes into him, trying to understand what troubled the boy so.

"I'm – uh - in the Dark Lord's rooms there was Nagini."

"Yes, and?" Lucius narrowed his eyes.

"She, she said she'd protect me. She calmed me. Now, now I'm alone with you, sir." The boy looked down and to the side again, biting his trembling lips. "Sorry, sir."

"Why would you – ?" Lucius trailed off, remembering how Potter had reacted when he told him to go to the bathroom, and afterwards, when he had opened the door. How Potter had suddenly stiffened and shown fear and submission, when a moment earlier he had been looking relaxed and happy while playing and chatting with the snake, rubbing her body dry with the towel. How tense, anxious and ashamed Potter had been when he started to touch him, applying the Bruise balm.

"What do you think – ?" Lucius inhaled sharply, finally realizing what the nervous boy thought was going to happen. "No! No, I do not request any payment of that sort from you. I've just healed you; I'm trying to put you back on your feet. How can you believe I would – ?"

"You're a Death Eater," Potter whispered.

"Indeed and proud of it, nevertheless, I'm not going to force myself on you."

Harry looked up disbelievingly, fidgeting. "But Mr Malfoy, I owe you a huge favour, a life debt. I heard you talking back in the study when I woke up. I thought you brought me here now because you – you wanted me to start paying you back, that you want my – my service. Or, else, I thought you wanted to – to punish me, finally get your revenge."

Lucius raised one finely sculptured blonde eyebrow. "What are you talking about, what revenge should I take?" he asked puzzled.

Harry glanced up shyly, again nibbling at his bottom lip. "For all the trouble I've caused you, sir. Like exposing your plot to Dumbledore and freeing Dobby two years ago. And for participating in hexing your son, on the Hogwarts express on the trip back to London a few weeks ago."

Lucius just looked at him, telling himself to be patient. The young man couldn't think straight from fear and exhaustion.

Yes, he still was quite angry at Potter about what had happened two years ago, but that plan hadn't worked like Lucius intended, regardless of Potter's interference at the end of the school year. He didn't know what exactly Potter had discovered or done or how Dobby was involved in that mess; only that Dobby must have betrayed Lucius, because Potter and Dumbledore had known, not guessed, that Lucius was responsible for opening the Chamber of Secrets by means of that little old journal. Dumbledore's words had been ambiguous, half-truths at best.

In any case, Lucius was terrified of the punishment once the Dark Lord found out that Lucius' brilliant plan to reopen the Chamber and getting Dumbledore and Arthur Weasley discredited went haywire and that his master's mysterious enchanted journal was damaged and lost. So far, He had been too busy with other matters and had not inquired to its whereabouts.

Lucius dearly hoped that the Dark Lord had forgotten about it and that Potter didn't inadvertently give away anything. He thought about Oblivating the boy, but that was extremely risky and very difficult. Surely Potter had numerous memories about the petrification of the students, and then there was that Duelling club incident Draco had mentioned. Somehow Potter had found the journal, and somehow saved that Weasley chits life.

When Lucius had seen him in the Headmaster's office, Potter was dirty and soaking wet, his robes torn. On Dumbledore's desk a bloody sword had lain, Lucius remembered now. Had Potter really fought a monster? The rumours had spoken of a Basilisk, but that surely was only schoolyard gossip! Nevertheless, he just couldn't erase a full school year. That would cause new problems and be highly suspicious. So he decided to play the incident down, giving Potter the impression that it wasn't important any more, lest his mind linger on it. And about Dobby, well… With Draco, that was another matter.

Harry seemed a bit less tense, so Lucius slowly leaned forward, reaching for his right hand. The young wizard flinched, but didn't try to pull away when Lucius took hold gently.

"Come, let's sit down before you faint, you look worn-out," he said, leading an unresisting Harry to the two-seater near the fireplace. He pushed the boy down and settled in next to him. Harry was still uneasy, looking at Lucius warily, who turned to him sideways and rested his left arm on the backrest, exuding relaxation and calmness.

"Potter, about two years ago, well, best not to dwell on that. When you tricked me into setting Dobby free I was incensed, but it turned out to be advantageous. Debby is a much better servant than Dobby ever could be. Dobby drove me up the wall. That elf wasn't sane, an unreliable menace that caused nothing but trouble, a disgrace to all house elves. Debby is so ashamed of her older brother that she doesn't ever speak of him, like his parents. They are very unhappy and disappointed in their only son."

Harry gaped at him, speechless. He had never considered that Malfoy might have had a valid reason to punish Dobby and treat him so terrible; he had believed Malfoy was just an evil, cruel man that cursed house elves or Muggles for fun. "You two didn't get on well then in general?" he asked carefully.

Lucius snorted. "No, we didn't. That would be the understatement of the century." Seeing Potter's questioning gaze, he decided to elaborate, there was no harm in telling the young man about the house elf and talking like this should calm him down. "Dobby's family has been in the service of my family since – I don't know. Always. We've never had such trouble with any other house elf. He hated me, and being what he was, what his station in life was. I admit that I can be a harsh master, but if the house elves do their work as they are supposed to, I see no reason to deal out punishments. Dobby was different from the others, I've no idea why. Bye the way, what happened to him?"

"Dumbledore allowed him to stay at Hogwarts," Harry answered. "He cleans Gryffindor tower at night. He – he likes me, and always wants to help me. In second year, he caused me a lot of trouble and nearly got me killed, although he meant well, only his methods were - err – not in my best interest. He made it up to me though, last year he did help me to manage the second task. Later it turned out that Moody, I mean the fake Moody, Barty, used Dobby to help me."

"I see." Lucius said, wondering what that story was about - but now was not the time to delve into it. Instead he inquired, "So, has Dobby somehow chosen you as his new master?"

"Oh no, Dobby is a free elf!" Harry exclaimed. "He is no slave any more, he is proud that he gets paid!"

"Pip-squeak," Lucius scoffed. "Nonsense, that elf's deluded, completely insane. Dobby won't live long, if he has no true master, no house. Although I suppose the Hogwarts house elves do have the castle and the Headmaster as an equivalent to a master, a family they are bound to like normal house elves. Hogwarts is a magical castle, an enormous conduit; it can sustain hundreds of house elves easily."

Harry blinked stumped, he didn't know what to think or say, save some form of 'Huh? What's it?' House elves needing a master? Was this true? Was this the reason why most students regarded Hermione's S.P.E.W idea as utterly barmy?

Lucius quickly changed the subject. "About you hexing Draco, well, I suppose that he provoked you and your friends in some way on the train?"

"Yes, sir, he did," Potter replied more lively, when the memory brought back his anger. "Draco barged into our compartment with Crabbe and Goyle. He was so very smug, conceited, sure to be on the winning side now that the Dark Lord was back. He said nasty things; like that my friends would be the next to die, like – like Cedric." There was such pain in Potter's voice; obviously the death of his fellow champion had hit him hard.

Lucius didn't dwell on Diggory's death, Potter wouldn't understand – yet - that the Hufflepuff champion would have died sooner or later anyway, his family were staunch Dumbledore supporters. Like the bloodtraitor Weasleys. Instead he commented, "I thought so. Draco is of rash temper, too self-important, arrogant; he must learn to choose his battles more wisely and not to underestimate you."

"You – you believe me that he started it?" responded Harry, incredulous. "Snape would never believe me: he'd dock fifty points and give me detention for a month! You don't want to punish me for hexing your only son and his friends?" He was really interested, so he turned fully around to face the blond, placing an arm along the back of the sofa, almost touching Lucius and brought his legs up to curl under him. His green eyes travelled over Lucius face as if he saw him clearly for the first time.

"No. I punished my son for being foolhardy," explained Lucius to Harry's utter surprise, "for starting a duel on the train in the first place and losing against a few Gryffindors. That was extremely imprudent; you had just won the Triwizard Tournament and survived an encounter with the Dark Lord for Merlin's sake, which tells anybody that you are no normal fourth year student."

Lucius looked the young wizard next to him up and down, seizing him up. Harry flushed a bit under the scrutiny.

"If Draco wants to fight with you he must improve his tactic, like choosing a better place for an attack without witnesses and be much quicker with his wand." Lucius said. "He is very upset, as I told you already because your friend Miss Granger bested him again in the overall Hogwarts ranking. Be prepared to expect vicious attacks to your back from him. I expect he will use his new status as a prefect to cause trouble, but you'll manage. Well, we shall see, you staying here might change some things drastically."

Harry stared at him, flushing some more. "Thanks for the warning. You speak as if – as if you respect me, sir?"

"That I do," Lucius confirmed, struggling not to blush himself. "I didn't before, but after what happened during the tournament, five weeks ago and tonight, I must concede that you are quite resilient, brave and courageous; far from the arrogant, mediocre fool Severus has always described you. Potter, you are much tougher than my son."

"Um – err." Harry didn't know what he should say. Malfoy was showering him with compliments. Harry didn't think of himself in such terms, he only tried to survive; he reacted to circumstances and situations as best as he could. Brave? What was brave about taking crap from Vernon and enduring what Dudley and his gang did to him? OK, so he might have acted brave when he faced Voldemort five weeks ago, when he stood up and faced the Dark Lord Head on.

The blond scrutinized Harry for long moment. "This is not an easy thing to admit," he added finally, smiling wryly. "So, you heard our discussion in the study? How much?"

"Only bits and parts of it, I had a bloody headache and was dizzy," admitted Harry, averting his eyes. "I woke up when Nagini and Vol-,"

Malfoy hissed and scowled.

"Err, I mean the Dark Lord talked, and then he thanked you and Mr Avery."

"So, well, I did save your life. That is true. And I hope to use that to my advantage in the future; I'm a Slytherin after all." Lucius smirked. "However, I've not yet decided what to request from you. It might take some time until a situation arises where I require your help, and then, be sure I'll ask for it, all right?"

Potter again gazed incredulously at him, but nodded. Nervously liking his lips, he posed his next question, "Then, why am I here, sir?"

"This room is a guest room; it's the closest one to the Dark Lord's suite. I wanted to show it to you," Lucius clarified.

"Oh, why?"

"This is your room now, Potter. Or, it can be, depending upon your behaviour."

"What?" Potter stared at him. Then he turned his head away, closing his eyes, hunching his shoulders. "No, please don't do that Mr Malfoy. This is beyond cruel."

Lucius eyebrows shot upward, old resentment and anger flaring up. "You ungrateful brat, how dare you scorn my hospitality?" he snarled incensed, "Not good enough for Harry Potter?"

Harry reared back, looking at him wide-eyed, aghast. "What? No, no, sir, I didn't mean it like that! You completely misunderstood me. It's a very fine room, perfect, lovely and I'm more than grateful for your protection and hospitality, the potions and everything you did for me."

"Then take more care how you express yourself, Potter!" Lucius snapped sharply, leaning forward.

Like a flash Harry raised his arm over his face and cringed instinctively, as if expecting to be hit. When Lucius froze, appalled that he'd scared the boy again, Harry slowly lowered his arm, looking up at him not arrogantly, but completely lost. "Mr Malfoy, when you said that – that this is my room now, did you really mean it?"

Lucius reined in his temper and leaned back again, giving the boy space. "Of course," he said. "Otherwise I wouldn't have mentioned it in the first place. You may stay here, under certain conditions that I wanted to discuss with you. What did you think I meant?"

Flushing, Harry traced the pattern on a cushion with his finger, looking mortified. "That – that you only said that to bait me. That is what I meant when I said that you are cruel. To get my hopes up, and then you'll sneer and laugh at my stupidity, tell me what a gullible fool I am. I should be used to it by now."

"Potter, I am completely sincere. I told you earlier that you are my guest. You asked me for sanctuary, and I'm offering to take you in."

"Really? I – I can't believe this is true," Harry replied, baffled and still sceptical. "I thought I'm your prisoner, and that you'd first use me, then punish me, and then lock me up somewhere in a dungeon for the night. That – that I'll only live for a short while, maybe a few days, until your master is tired of me, and then…"

Lucius could barely control the fury bubbling up again. What did those beastly, horrific Muggles do to this boy? What did Dumbledore and his followers do? What did the rest of the sheep minded wizarding world do to him, all that hypocrisy and vicious slander? How often must this child have been taunted, ridiculed, hurt and disappointed, his hopes crushed, to expect only the worst from everybody? The Dark Lord had tried to kill Potter several times, but that were isolated incidents. The physical and mental abuse of Potter must have been constant over the past thirteen, almost fourteen years.

In the back of his mind he counted his old friend Severus among those who'd crushed Potter's spirit so effectively. That prejudiced incompetent git! The Head of Slytherin should have noticed that something was wrong with this boy in the first place; Severus was normally so cunning and perceptive. He could have started the process of winning the boy's trust right after arriving at Hogwarts, or better before he even got there. Potter could have been turned against the Light years ago. The Dark Lord could have returned years ago.

Oh well, he himself was also quite a disappointment to his master. He had bought that tale of a wonderful, comfortable, loving home where the Potter child, the Boy-Who-Lived, could grow up adored by his relatives and in peace from the overwhelming worship of the wizards without question, like everybody else in the magical community. He had not searched for his master, and he had never really tried to find Harry Potter. He hadn't realized this incredible opportunity to undermine and counteract Dumbledore even existed, this opening to help his master return to power.

He hadn't noticed a thing, hadn't listened close enough to what Draco told of Hogwarts, or of that day they were shopping in Diagon Alley in the summer 1991 and Draco had met Potter by chance. How different things could have developed, if the two boys had gotten along from the start. There had been a real possibility to befriend Potter, and Draco had squandered it.

The Dark Lord had shown him parts of Potter's memories, like how Potter found out that he was a wizard or how that encounter in Madam Malkins looked from Potter's point of view and just why Potter was so loyal to Hagrid, the Weasley family and by extension, Dumbledore.

Lucius now finally understood what had gone so wrong on that day. He hadn't been present in the shop and actually seen Potter close up or spoken with him and he hadn't grilled his son on the small details enough, or he might have picked up the signs of at least the neglect and the careful manipulation by Dumbledore. Hagrid had brought Potter as a toddler to the Dursleys on Dumbledore's orders, and ten years later he had appeared again to 'rescue' the young ignorant boy and to introduce him to the wonders of magic.

Lucius remembered that after Potter had been sorted into Gryffindor and the events of his first and second year, he had been sure that Potter was firmly in Dumbledore's pocket, so he encouraged the bitter rivalry between Draco and the so called Golden Trio. Now the Fates had offered him a second chance, and Lucius was determined to succeed.

Very slowly, he stretched out his hand and took hold of Potter's hand. Carefully, he intertwined their fingers and brushed over the bony knuckles with his thumb, trying to give the boy some comfort, and start seducing him. The young wizard stared at him, tense, defensive, disbelieving.

"Potter," said Lucius, only to be interrupted by a soft voice. "Please Mr Malfoy, call me Harry. I'm Harry, just Harry."

"All right Harry, this is your room. No trick, no bait. You can stay here, if you adhere to some simple rules, if you agree to my and the Dark Lord's terms."

"Ah, so there is a catch, I thought so," muttered the boy.

"Well, no catch, but you must understand that you pose a certain security risk and I can only allow you to stay here as my guest, and not a prisoner, if you are no threat to me and my family or to the Dark Lord. You must promise to obey us, to do nothing that might bring harm or danger upon us and to keep our secrets."

"I understand," agreed Harry at once, without hesitation. "I swear I'll do nothing to deliberately endanger you and yours." Lucius was surprised as he felt a tingle of magic in and around their hands and saw a very brief white golden flash, a sure sign of a wizard's oath – Potter didn't have his wand on hand, because the Dark Lord had that wand in his robe pocket!

The young wizard continued to speak, as if he hadn't noticed what he did at all. "What do you think I'll do, sir? Set the house on fire? Call the Aurors? I'm not that ungrateful, stupid or suicidal. You saved my life, you healed me, and you're offering me a refuge from my bloody relatives. Of course I'll be good, and I won't tell anyone that Vol -."

Lucius hissed and quickly interrupted, "Don't say his name!"

Potter looked sheepish, but continued, "That the Dark Lord lives here. But – but, what about him? I thought the Dark Lord wanted to interrogate me, and then decide if I was worth his time or not." He sighed deeply, not daring to get his hopes up. "Most likely he's only postponing my torture and death."

"Harry, the Dark Lord is very interested in you," Malfoy said, smirking. "If you heard our earlier conversation in the study, you know why. If you give him what he wants, and if you continue to behave respectfully, he won't kill you any time soon. His snake seems to be very fond of you."

"Hmmm. I understand he wants to know more about our connection, and about our wands. That makes sense, as I'm curious myself," said Harry, nodding. "Uhm, Mr Malfoy? I wanted to ask you something. When I woke up in the study, you – you said something like you wanted to win my trust, so you can persuade me to work for you, eventually be a spy."

Oh, so Potter had heard that part? What a pity. Lucius kept a blank face, and thought quickly. How to answer best? Normally he would seek to deflect, to diffuse, almost a reflex for a politician and businessman. But Potter was an entity of his own. Lucius job was to seduce him to the Dark, not to push him back and destroy the fragile tread of trust they had developed tonight. So he replied, "Indeed."

"Just Indeed? Yes? Truly?" Harry asked mockingly, sitting up straighter. "No long, drawn out denial? No flowery words and pretty lies to hide the wicked, naked truth?"

"No," the blond wizard retorted. "I get the impression you hate all the lies or half-truths you've been fed in the past thirteen years."

Harry looked into the stormy grey eyes and suddenly his face lit up with a shy smile. "You understand. I never thought I'd find someone who'd understand me, least of all a man like you Mr Malfoy." After a moment's hesitation, he gathered the courage to make his position clear. "I won't promise to work for you. I can't do that. I won't promise you to help kill my friends. I don't know really what this is all about, or how I could spy for you, so I cannot make such a decision now."

Inside, Harry cringed. Would Malfoy get angry? No, he only looked at him in an assessing way when the blond answered, "I don't expect you to decide right away, or to betray people you believe are your friends. Will you listen with an open mind, and think about our point of view?"

Harry had noticed the way of wording right away. Did Malfoy believe Harry to have false friends? A year ago he would have reacted with outrage and anger at such an accusation, but after what happened during the last year and over the past four weeks, he wasn't so sure any more who his true friends were, or if he had any left at all! So he replied, "Okay, that's fair."

"Very well," Lucius said, pleased with his compliance.

"Sir? What about tomorrow?" asked Potter.

"Ah, yes, please stay in this room tomorrow, for your own safety. Maybe my Lord will send Nagini to you; actually, that's very likely, as you can speak with her. Should he summon you, you shall go at once to his study, knock, and wait until he calls you inside, is that clear? Always greet him respectfully, and don't speak until spoken to. Obey his wishes promptly," Lucius advised.

Potter listened to the instructions and nodded. "Okay."

Lucius looked at the young man, going in his mind over what Potter additionally needed to know to avoid trouble.

"The door of your room is warded. You are safe, and nobody can enter if you do not open the door and invite them in, well, besides me, as I am the Head of house," Lucius explained. "My wife and son do not know about you. They have no business to use this floor under normal circumstances, and Draco is much too afraid to go near the Dark Lord and his snake, so I do not expect them to notice your presence. Nevertheless, don't make a racket or go sneaking around the manor on your own. You do not want to incur the wrath of our Lord or encounter Narcissa in a temper, she's a Black."

Malfoy looked almost worried at him. How strange. Harry wasn't used to people concerning themselves with his state of health or life, well, apart from Hermione, Hagrid, Sirius or sometimes Mrs Weasley.

Harry swallowed thickly. No, he wasn't very keen on a round of Cruciatus. Voldemort had behaved very friendly towards him this evening, but that could change in the blink of an eye, he was aware of that, so he promised Malfoy, "I won't, I don't want to cause any trouble, sir."

"Very well, tomorrow is Thursday, so I shall be at the Ministry between late morning and supper," Malfoy informed him. "Remember that Severus is supposed to deliver a batch of potions and make his report to our Lord sometime tomorrow. You don't want to run into him or any other Death Eaters coming to report unaware, do you? Most will attack and curse you first, and ask questions later."

Harry shook his head. "Nope, I mean no, Mr Malfoy. Thank you for the warnings."

After that, Malfoy didn't say anything further. A comfortable silence descended upon them.

Harry leaned sideways, resting his head on his arm on the backrest, and sighed. He was tired, it was late at night. Somehow he ended up leaning against Lucius shoulder who put his left arm around Harry's shoulders and just quietly held him in a loose embrace, without doing anything else save drawing a few slow circles with his fingertips on Harry's upper arm. At first Harry tensed up; it was so difficult for him to trust and relax, but he didn't feel constrained or restricted; if he wanted he could jump up any second. Gradually a sense of peace came over Harry, this was nice. Malfoy was warm, strong and smelled good.

Before he could doze off, Lucius's left forearm flinched suddenly, and the wizard hissed in a sharp breath. At the same time Harry felt a sting in his scar, which caused him to gasp and touch his forehead with his palm instinctively. Blinking he looked up at the wizard, who began to retract his arm and straightened up.

"Come on Harry, the Dark Lord is calling." Lucius rose and pulled Harry up with him.

"Must I go? I'm so knackered; I'd like to sleep, please?" Harry whined, rubbing his eyes and his scar. Would He stop calling, damnit? The bed looked so very inviting.

Harry made puppy-dog eyes, but Lucius wasn't to be swayed and pushed him towards the door, while telling him, "You can sleep long tomorrow, you don't have to go anywhere. Just rest and get better. The Dark Lord won't require your presence in the morning."

"Okay, thanks," answered Harry, yawning.

"When you wake up, just snap your fingers and call for Debby. She'll bring you breakfast or lunch, whatever you want," said Lucius, while reaching around Harry to open the door and ushering him out into the hallway. "Tell her to bring you a selection of Draco's summer clothes and shoes from the attic, choose anything you like and that fits. I don't ever want to see you hungry or in rags again."

Harry ducked his head, blushing, but he didn't flinch any more upon the brief contact, by now he had become used to Malfoy's presence. He was ashamed that he was so small and thin, that Draco's clothes from last summer would most likely be still too large. Compared to the tall, slender, flawlessly styled blond perfection of the Malfoy's, he felt ugly.

Walking towards the Dark Lord's quarters, Lucius looked down on the wiry figure at his side; he seemed to read his thoughts. "Don't worry Harry. You are handsome, only a bit too thin. The scars will fade in time, if you apply the Bruise balm regularly." He briefly laid his hand on Harry's shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

"Now, Severus is the Dark Lord's Potions master; I'm confident that he'll be able to brew a nutrient potion to help you overcome the malnutrition, but I suppose you'll have to take it for months and it will taste awful. We'll have to ask him about another potion to soothe your stomach and increase your appetite, until you are able again to eat normal servings like other teenage boys."

Harry's ears and neck flushed, again! He was so not used to being coddled, called handsome, or being touched so casually by a truly handsome man. He dubiously looked up at Malfoy's face. "You think so, sir? If Snape finds out the potion is for me, he'll mix up some nasty poison. I'll shrink down to house elf size!"

They had almost reached the door to the study, which stood open, warm candle light streamed into the hallway. Lucius chuckled, "No, no, we wouldn't want that! I want you at least as tall as Draco in a year for your sixteenth birthday." Hearing this, Harry ducked his head, blushing again.

"I'd like that too, Mr Potter."

Harry looked up surprised; Voldemort leaned smirking in the doorway, obviously waiting for them.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer see chapter 1. Hints of self-harm and suicidal thoughts in this chapter due to emotional distress.

* * *

><p>Malfoy stopped at once and bowed curtly from the waist, murmuring, "My Lord."<p>

After a second of hesitation, Harry copied Malfoy's movement and bowed briefly, only he said, "Good evening, sir."

Straightening up, he deliberately kept his eyes downcast to demonstrate non-aggressiveness, waiting. His mouth was dry from nerves, he mused about that remark. Voldemort and Lucius would like to see him on his sixteenth birthday, as tall as Draco? Was that a taunt or joke, or meant serious?

Voldemort stepped back and invited them inside his study. "Do come in." He walked to his desk and took a seat, then waved his wand at the two chairs standing near the wall and moved them in front of his desk. "Sit."

Harry and Lucius obeyed quietly. His hands clenched to fists resting on his grey silk clad thighs, Harry waited calmly to be addressed.

Voldemort was close enough that he could see that Potter only faked this calm. His breathing was flat, the pulse raced through the jugular on his neck, his shoulders were tense. Naturally, the boy was wary of him. However, he was holding up admirably, just like earlier, when Nagini had wound herself all around him and Voldemort had rifled through his memories. Potter's movements, the way of greeting had been very deliberate, showing his intentions clearly. This really wasn't the brash, proud Potter of first year, or recently at the graveyard. Amazing.

Voldemort didn't say anything for a while, just observing the boy. Would he crack, speak first, risk punishment? It didn't appear so.

"You speak and act tonight more like a Slytherin, Potter, not like a Gryffindor," he finally addressed the young wizard, opening their conversation.

"Because I am. Well, I guess half of me is a snake," Potter responded quietly, looking up shyly through his fringe.

"Oh? How so?" inquired Voldemort.

"The Sorting Hat first wanted me in Slytherin. It said that I would do well in Slytherin, that house would help me on my way to greatness," Potter revealed. "But I requested any other house, because I had been told before arriving at Hogwarts that Slytherin was an evil house, which turned out only bad wizards. You-Know-Who, my parents murderer, had come from Slytherin. I didn't know anything about the wizarding world and was a naïve fool. At the end of my second year I had an opportunity to talk to the Hat again, and it was still of the opinion that Slytherin was my true house."

"Is that so?" remarked Voldemort. "Last year during the tasks of the Triwizard Tournament and in the graveyard you behaved like the quintessential Gryffindor, all righteous, determined and brave to a fault. After seeing your memories, I thought that you should have been a Slytherin, too. You continue to surprise me, you are quite intriguing, Potter. There is much more to you than meets the eye."

Harry smiled tentatively. To be perceived as intriguing was good, wasn't it?

The Dark Lord studied him again with undisguised curiosity; tracing his lips with the wand he was holding. Harry's eyes were hooked on the unaware gesture for a moment, before he looked away, flushing.

Suddenly Voldemort spoke, "I want to check something Potter, just sit still. The spell will not hurt you."

Harry nodded, swallowing thickly. What now? Malfoy had already scanned him for so much earlier in the study.

Voldemort cast a special detection charm at Potter. There was something strange, evidence of Dark magic on the boy's forehead, concentrated in the curse scar. Highly unusual, that after all these years the mark of the failed Avada Kedavra should still show up so clearly. The probe indicated that the young wizard had been subjected to Dark magic repeatedly. Of course, the boy had been close to a Dementor tonight, and had been cursed with Imperius and Cruciatus last June. The rest was certainly Imperius residue from those lessons with Barty junior. That idiot, why had he basically conditioned Potter to resist this particular curse during the past year in his DADA class?

"Is everything all right, sir?" Harry asked nervously, seeing the frown on the elder wizard's serpentine face.

"Oh yes, nothing to worry about," replied Voldemort, sitting back. He drew Potter's wand out of his pocket, laying it right next to his own wand on the desk, feeling the warmth, the sense of familiarity again.

Harry slumped in his chair and yawned suddenly. He quickly covered his mouth, embarrassed. "Sorry," he muttered, but he was really tired.

Malfoy noticed and drew his wand. With a flick a vial flew towards him from the potion's kit standing on the side table. "Harry? Do you need another Invigoration draught?"

"Oh yes. Thanks, sir," Harry smiled gratefully, quickly snatching the vial out of the air on instinct. He was a Seeker, after all.

Malfoy smiled indulgently, watching how the boy's cheeks regained colour and his posture straitened as soon as the potion began to show an effect. Then he looked up right into his master's eyes. There was an expression Voldemort was not used to in the steely grey orbs; Lucius was again urgently asking for Potter's life, pleading, no demanding to let the boy live!

The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes in irritation. He did consider Lucius' arguments to decide Potter's fate, but it wasn't Lucius' decision.

Voldemort contemplated Lucius' behaviour. What is it about Potter that he is teetering on the brink of insubordination tonight? He does sense his stunning power, like I feel it, that is clear, and the opportunity this boy presents to use him and bring Dumbledore down is immense.

But is this slip of a boy so gorgeous that Lucius desires him as a pet? Possible, pale skin, with his black hair and green eyes, that's attractive. He now looks like a mistreated Thestral colt, all lanky and scrawny, legs a mile long, with knobby knees, but that can only improve. Or did Lucius suddenly develop protective parental feelings for the brat, because Potter was so abused by the Muggles and is of the same age as his son? Is it a mix of both?

Voldemort leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and steepled his long fingers together. He looked over his joined hands at Harry. "So, Potter, here is your famous wand. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, is it not?"

Harry gasped in astonishment. "Yes, sir. But how do you know that?"

"The Triwizard Tournament. All the Champions wands were examined at the start; it was in the Daily Prophet," reminded Voldemort.

"Oh. I forgot. Bloody Rita," commented Harry.

"Language."

"Sorry, sir."

Voldemort chuckled, "Habit, is it? You are not sorry at all, and I am not your teacher, Potter."

He studied the youngster for a moment, before asking something that he dearly wanted to know.

"Potter, when we duelled last time in the graveyard, do you have any idea why our wands connected the way they did? What happened? Why couldn't I kill you? Where did that golden dome and those spirits come from?"

Harry gulped and shivered in remembrance. "Y-Yes, sir. I know," he mumbled, looking down and off to the side.

"Well? Explain! And look at me when I talk to you!" snapped Voldemort, letting loose some of his dark aura to intimidate the boy.

"Umm, well, I don't really know if it's true, but Dumbledore told me afterwards in the Hospital wing that it was the Pri – Priori In – Incantatem effect. You know, because our wands are - are brothers?" Harry stammered, fearful of Voldemort's reaction.

"Brothers? How so?" asked the elder wizard doubtfully, frowning.

"The feather inside, it's from the same phoenix," Harry explained. "Fawkes, that is Dumbledore's phoenix, you know?"

"Really? What a coincidence!" commented Voldemort. "Matches out of thousands of possible wands."

"Oh yes, it is true, sir. Really," affirmed Harry earnestly.

"Are you sure? How can you know that – wait, Olivanders?"

"Yes, sir." Harry nodded. "When Hagrid brought me to Diagon Alley that very first time, the day of my eleventh birthday, Mr Olivander gave me many dozens of wands to try. Finally he brought this one wand to me in a dusty box. It was - uncanny, weird. As if he expected that something special would happen. And it did, this was _my_ wand, it felt so warm. The feeling of my power and the wand connecting was incredible."

Harry smiled in remembering that elated feeling, when everything about magic and wizards had seemed so new and wonderful. Voldemort nodded, he had never forgotten that special moment, and it had taken him quite long to find his yew wand too.

"Afterwards he said it was curious," Harry recounted. "I remember very well, every word! I asked Mr Olivander what is so curious? He said, that my wand is made from holly with a phoenix feather core. That this phoenix gave two feathers, only two. And that the other one was in its brother, the wand that gave me my scar. He talked about this yew wand, said it was very powerful. That we must expect great things from me, because He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had done great things, terrible, yes but great. And he said that the wand chooses the wizard."

Voldemort sat frowning in stunned silence, again. Malfoy looked from his lord to Harry and back, equally speechless. He hardly dared to breathe, hoping that the tall serpentine wizard forgot him for the moment, so that he could listen to more of this extraordinary discussion and learn such deep secrets of wand-lore and the magical connection between the Dark Lord and the Boy Who Lived.

"Did Olivander really say that? Tell me the truth, Potter!" Voldemort demanded in a ringing tone, infusing the words with a compulsion charm.

"It is the truth!" exclaimed Harry. "Of course, that day, I didn't understand, I didn't really know who this He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was or what this mysterious person might have done, besides going evil and killing my parents, like Hagrid told me. I swear, it's true! I do not lie all the time, despite what that rag writes about me," declared Harry, incensed that the Dark Lord doubted his words.

Voldemort bored his narrowed ruby eyes into Harry's, who winced and unconsciously raised his hand to rub over his scar, until the elder wizard seemed satisfied and leaned back in his chair. "I believe you, Potter, it is all right. However it is like fate, like destiny, that your holly wand stayed unclaimed in Olivanders' shop for, what, more than fifty years after I bought my wand. Most remarkable."

He tapped his long forefinger against his lips, wondering. How did Olivander know to keep that holly wand back from sale all of these years? Or did people try it, but it never matched anyone until this boy stepped into the shop? It will be interesting to pay Olivanders a visit someday, he mused.

"Well, it appears you are the Child of Prophesy indeed." Voldemort stated in a tone of finality. "So, the brother wand cores and the Priori Incantatem effect caused what happened on that night I came back. It appears we cannot duel to the death against each other with these wands, but I can use my wand against you, the Cruciatus curse worked, you screamed."

"Yeah, that hurt like hell," remarked Harry grudgingly. "My luck sucks." He rubbed his scar, it throbbed faintly, again. Not very bad, yet, but it did act up.

What did Voldemort mean with 'Child of Prophesy'? Weird. Harry mulled over this expression, it was just another fucking title.

The Dark Lord sank again into his own thoughts for a while, pondering this revelation and conceding that it had been a very good idea to let the boy live. He did provide irreplaceable information and he was very cooperative as promised by Lucius as well.

If both wands where so unique and similar, it was possible that he could use it like his own. It would be prudent to keep it as a reserve wand for himself.

Hmpf – Lucius will be so pleased, he will expect a boon. I don't have to give him anything, of course, I am not a charity, I am Lord Voldemort. It's clear what he would ask for though, to keep the boy for his use, exclusively. The boy is mine, though. But Lucius did gain his trust already; he can continue to seduce him to our side.

"Please, sir," the boy suddenly spoke up. "May I speak freely?"

"Speak, boy," the Dark Lord commanded, imperceptibly twitching his wand casting _Duco_ to enforce the compulsion cast with that command onto Potter to 'let the kneazle out of the bag', to speak without inhibition what was on his mind.

Something like anger flashed across Potter's pale, thin, harried face.

"Don't call me 'boy' sir, it's what my uncle always says, or 'freak'. Until primary school I didn't even know that my name was Harry Potter." He sneered full of revulsion and accusation. "Please, just call me Harry."

This statement garnered an incensed hiss from Voldemort and a glower from Malfoy. "Muggle filth! How dare they!" the blond spat.

Harry winced at a short stab of pain in his scar, he stopped speaking, processing that the so called 'most evil' dark wizards in the room were really angry not _at_ him, but _on_ _his _behalf, just like Nagini had told him. He continued after a moment to order his thoughts.

"Sir, I was only half aware and had a killer headache when I woke up, but I realize that you – that you examined and discussed me. You saw that I cannot even hold my own against my Muggle relatives."

He waited if Voldemort would laugh at him, tell him how weak, despicable and pathetic he was like Snape would, but the serpentine man only nodded and looked encouragingly at him. Harry took a deep breath and prepared to put into words what he had figured out in the countless sleepless nights in his stuffy, shabby room, tormented by nightmares when he did fall asleep from exhaustion, ever fearful of his uncle or cousin barging in and backhanding him or do worse.

"I don't want to fight you, sir," Harry stated the most important point.

Voldemort's sparse eyebrows snapped upward.

"I've no clue why you hate me or why you killed my parents, when I did nothing on purpose to you," Harry said firmly. "My mum did some magic that nearly killed you. Dumbledore said it was her love for me. You said in the graveyard it was some form of ancient magic. I don't know. But I sure as hell didn't _do_ anything_ to_ you. How could I? Since then, I have only defended myself against you because you attacked me, not the other way around.

"I don't know why you and Dumbledore fight at all. Or why you attack innocent people." Harry glowered at Voldemort, his anger and frustration overriding his fear for the moment. "I only know I never asked to be called the bloody Boy Who Lived, to be hailed as their hero, to be pushed into the lime light and your line of fire. I don't want that idiotic title and the fame; I want to be left alone, like a normal, ordinary schoolboy."

Voldemort watched the young wizard contemplatively.

"I told Dumbledore and Fudge you were back; but of course the Minister didn't believe me. I'm an attention seeking liar suffering from fits and hallucinations according to the Daily Prophet. Nearly everybody turned on me last year. Now people tell me that I was brave and did the right thing, but that I can't sleep because of the nightmares doesn't matter to anybody, they couldn't even spare one vial of Dreamless Sleep potion on me to take along into the Muggle world." Harry's sneer matched Malfoys. He was so fed up with everything!

"My reward for escaping you was to be stuck in Little Whinging for four solid weeks, completely cut off from the magical world. They wrote me I'm not allowed any contact for security purposes, you know? How can Dumbledore forgot me so easily?" Harry spat, anger and bitterness dripping from every word.

"I know the Headmaster expects me to fight you, or to try to escape, but here it's much better compared to the Dursleys, where he and my false friends and my g – godfather left me to rot." Harry said, his voice now shaking; he struggled to not break down completely. He felt so raw, open, betrayed. "They all act as if they care about me. B- But I'm not worth anything to them during the summer. Not even a proper letter or a phone call or a visit for the freak. I've to fend for myself, deal with the usual crap alone, as always."

Harry sighed, fighting tears, rubbing quickly over his tired eyes. He was overwhelmed by his emotions, by the desire to pour his heart out. He couldn't stop talking. Briefly he wondered why, normally he didn't talk to anybody about his troubles or fears save that time last year to Sirius. It would disturb his friends if they knew the depth of his despair, that he wasn't always brave and strong.

Maybe Malfoy had slipped him some potion to loosen his tongue, or Voldemort cast some charm that affected him? It didn't matter, he couldn't sink any lower. They had seen his true pathetic self. If Voldemort really wanted to torture or kill him, he would, and nothing Harry said or did could stop him, just like he couldn't defend himself against Vernon or Dudley and his gang during the past weeks. It was only Nagini's, Malfoy's and Avery's arguments that had stopped Voldemort from murdering him on sight. Nobody of his friends or of the adults he considered his surrogate family like the Weasleys, Sirius or Professor Lupin had ever seen him laid bare like this, without any mask or glamour.

"When I discovered that I had a godfather who was not a criminal at the end of third year, I was so full of hope," Harry remembered in fond reminiscence. "I thought he wanted me, that I could live with him during the summer and that I wouldn't have to return to _them_! I wouldn't mind travelling around, living in the woods or sleeping in a cave because he has to hide from the Ministry." Harry sounded as alone and downcast as he felt. "But Sirius didn't take me along. He didn't want me."

"Certainly your godfather thought that such a life on the streets was too dangerous for you, Harry. Didn't he write you at least?" asked Voldemort considerately, as if he cared.

"Si-Sirius wrote letters to me, yes, and last year we met at Hogsmeade, that was great, he tried to help with the tournament. But he couldn't do anything save warn me. I didn't want to compete, I didn't want those bloody reporters writing lies about me. I wanted out." Harry stared angrily at Voldemort because that part of last year had been his entire fault.

"Now I'm sure Sirius is living somewhere in England. His letters sound as if he's together with my other friends somehow." Harry sat there with heaving chest, fighting the sobs trying to overwhelm him. It hurt so much to think about Sirius. "But if Sirius is here," he asked, "why doesn't he come and get me away from – from _them_?" He didn't expect an answer from the two wizards listening to his rant. He wished he could ask Sirius himself, but at the same time he dreaded the answer. Who wanted to hear that he is not wanted, after all?

"Somehow, I think he is only interested in me because my dad made him my godfather, out of duty, and in memory of my father. I'm not sure that he wants _me_, _just_ Harry." He sighed wearily. "Who would want the true me, anyway?" he added dejectedly, not noticing the telling glances between Voldemort and Lucius.

If he was worth something, if Sirius cared about _him_, then why didn't he _show_ it? Not only write short letters, but _do_ something? What Harry needed most was to escape the Dursleys, before they maimed him irreparably or killed him. He had been worked like a slave since earliest childhood, been beaten, thrown down the stairs, locked in without food and water, hurt and tortured in ways he didn't care to remember – one didn't have to study medicine to know that one day it would be too much. Why did he have to suffer so much? He'd never harmed anybody on purpose. Well, except killing Quirrell and the Basilisk in self-defence, and getting Cedric killed too because he'd wanted to be fair.

He shifted his position in agitation, running his hands through his hair, gulping in air and trying to keep the pain clawing at his insides down. "Nobody answers my questions," he spat bitterly, getting angrier by the minute.

"They wrote stuff like 'We are all together. We are very busy, a lot is going on, but we can't tell you anything. Keep your nose clean. Don't do anything rash.' Crap! Bugger it! They don't have to endure the Dursleys day and night, they have no idea what's going on! I hate them!" he screamed suddenly, slamming his fists onto his thighs.

Lucius sat with bated breath, expecting Voldemort to cast some hex at Potter any minute, but his master listened patiently to the ranting and sobbing boy across from him. Very unusual, he mused. Nevertheless, the compulsion charm worked well to get Potter to reveal his deepest secrets.

"Hm, no wonder you are so frustrated Harry. They truly left you behind in the Muggle world. I'm sure Dumbledore is marshalling his forces against me," said Voldemort in an understanding tone, using his first name like the boy had asked him to.

"Yes, that's what I believe – oh." Harry sat back, gasping for breath, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

"You are back, surely you are making plans," reasoned Harry. "I guess Dumbledore is trying to counter, making plans of his own?"

Voldemort nodded. "We suppose he does."

Harry frowned, remembering something. "That night, in the hospital wing, I heard him say something about, about gathering the old crowd. Whatever that is. Sounded like a secret club. Do you know, sir?"

"Yes, Harry, it happens that I do, but thank you for mentioning it," praised Voldemort in a charming, friendly voice. "He was talking about the Order of the Phoenix."

"Who? Sir?" asked Harry. He'd never heard of an 'Order of the Phoenix.'

"His group of self-righteous do-gooder rag tag from the first war," Voldemort added derisively.

"What? Oh! So that's what they always hedged around in their letters!" exclaimed Harry. "I bet the Weasleys, the real Moody and Sirius are members. Yes, I remember, he sent Bill and Sirius off to inform people that night. He mentioned Professor Lupin, Mr Weasley, and – and – Arabella Figg, and a – I don't know? Is that a name, Dungus something?"

Lucius listened in rapt attention, reminding himself not to smirk maliciously, displaying only polite, compassionate interest. It was inspiring to observe how easy it was for his master to manipulate Potter or alternatively, how willing and open Potter was. It didn't matter that they were already aware of most of these people. Bill must be William, the eldest Weasley son.

Voldemort nodded to Potter's statement. "Indeed, they were and are Order members," he confirmed. "Do you mean Mundungus Fletcher?"

Harry nodded, "Yes that was the name, strange one. And wait, I know a Mrs Figg, an old lady, a neighbour. But it can't be her, she's no witch? Maybe a relative of hers?"

"I'm not sure, but in time you will find out. So, now you know why your friends and godfather wrote that they are so very _busy_ this summer." Voldemort sneered, showing Harry the disdain he felt for the Order's efforts.

"Yeah. But they could have written me that, couldn't they, as you already know about them. Idiots!" groused Harry.

Voldemort smirked. "Maybe Dumbledore believes I forgot about his flaming chicken club from the first war? Although I cannot imagine what they, especially some children, might be doing this summer that is so incredibly secret and important that they can't mention it to their best friend." There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice, but Potter didn't pick up on this.

Harry looked up at him, bitter, but also puzzled. "I've no clue. If these people meet at The Burrow to discuss your return, then I would expect that Mrs Weasley forces the twins, Ron, Ginny and Hermione to peal mountains of onions, potatoes, carrots and turnips without magic to cook for all of them. Now I'm almost glad I'm not invited!" He sniggered at the mental picture.

Voldemort and Lucius exchanged another quick glance and smirked, eyes sparkling in glee. This was going better than any of their plans, better than the originally intended torture session to break the Boy-Who-Lived, should they ever catch him. Dumbledore and the Order had done the job already, aided by those beastly Muggles. Voldemort decided to reward the boy with information.

"Harry, you asked me earlier why I attacked you parents and why I repeatedly tried to kill you. I did for several reasons. One, your parents were Order members, soldiers of the Light, my enemies," Voldemort explained.

"Oh. So, there is this Order of the Phoenix?" Harry mulled over the expression. "Why do you call them soldiers of the Light? Why did my parents get involved?"

Voldemort smirked. _Perfect!_

Leaning forward and locking eyes with the emotional young wizard he started, "For you to understand that, I'll first have to explain a few things you seem to lack knowledge of. Albus Dumbledore is the unofficial leader of the Light side. He was asked to take on the post of Minister for Magic several times, but he prefers to stay in the background, pulling strings, manipulating people to do his bidding. As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot he had a lot of influence in addition to being the Headmaster of Hogwarts since 1956, and before that he was the Transfiguration teacher for many decades."

Harry interrupted with his eyes wide in sudden understanding. "Oh, of course! He was also your teacher, sir, wasn't he?"

"Correct," Voldemort replied, wondering for a second how Harry could know that, but it was not such an unreasonable assumption. "Dumbledore has shaped many generations of students, indoctrinated them with his beliefs and controlled the access to information available to the students. He believes wizards and Muggles can co-exist, and work together without problems, that the Muggles are and will stay harmless if they know more about magic; that any altercations are the result of simple misunderstandings."

Harry snorted loudly and huffed, "Dumbledore doesn't know the Dursleys, obviously. Not all Muggles are as bad as them, Hermione's parents seem to be proud of her, but many believe that sorcerers and witches are evil, and working with the devil, demons or evil spirits. It's a frequent theme of fairy tales, books, telly shows and films."

"You're right, but don't interrupt so much, Harry," chided the Dark Lord mildly.

"Sorry, sir," came Harry's automatic reply.

Lucius observed the extraordinary patience and friendliness that his master showed towards Potter tonight. This behaviour was a very effective manipulation tactic, he had used it himself. Lull the boy in complacency, put him at ease, make him feel safe and relaxed, appreciated and at home here in a way his relatives house had never been and thereby inspire loyalty towards the Dark Lord and the Dark Order.

"So, your dear Headmaster supports the steady increase of half-bloods and Mudbloods into our world," described Voldemort. "Since becoming Headmaster, he has changed the Hogwarts curriculum to cater to these Muggle-born and half-blood children, thereby dropping the standard of education. He discarded valuable magical knowledge and traditions in favour of so called modernization, but he is ruining our world! He encourages marriages of wizards and witches with Muggles, thereby creating more half-bloods with all the connected problems, which he categorically denies exist. We will explain more to you about this at another time."

Harry nodded to show he understood.

"Now, these wizards in his secret group, which he named the Order of the Phoenix, are vigilantes," elucidated Voldemort. "That means, they have no official authorization from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to attack or arrest or to kill other wizards. However, they see themselves as the soldiers of the Light, the sole defenders of all that is good and right in the world, hence the moniker."

He stopped speaking to let Harry ask questions, if he had any, and raised an eyebrow in invitation.

"Oh, OK," nodded Harry. "And, what do they do? Sir?"

"Ah, what _do_ they do?" Voldemort intoned sarcastically. "Several things, for example trying to convince other people that I'm back or – ," he paused purposefully in his speech, savouring the tension, before revealing, "guarding you, the precious Boy-Who-Lived in _secret_. Ah, now I see, it does make sense that your _friends_ didn't tell you this in their letters."

He smirked wickedly. It was a great joke to him, but for the boy it must feel like bitter betrayal. Another severe miscalculation of Dumbledore, withholding information and cutting the boy of from contact like he did, thereby widening the gap between the Headmaster and his 'Golden boy'.

"What?" Agitated, Harry jumped up, shouting, "There have been _wizards_ around Privet Drive in the last weeks? Wizards _loyal_ to Dumbledore? And they never said or did _anything?_"

Instead of scolding or punishing him for the outburst, Voldemort just looked at him and inclined his head in affirmation. Glancing over at Malfoy, Harry got a similar gesture in return. The young wizard fumed, standing there with clenched fists. This was maddening!

"Wait, I heard a noise, a crack, right after the seven o'clock news!" he cried out. "Then that _was_ someone Disapparating, and no car backfiring, I knew it! Ha!" He let himself fall again onto the chair, huffing and shaking his head; he dragged one hand through his wild, black hair without noticing, consumed by anger and confusion. Why didn't anyone tell him? Or speak with him, or with the Dursleys? _Why ever did Dumbledore do this to him?_

After a moment, Harry frowned. "But, if there was a guard tonight, they left… And Sirius or my friends would have said hello, if they had been there, or not? Wouldn't they?" The last was mumbled in a low voice to himself.

Despair rose again in him. There had truly been someone magical close to him, someone who could have spoken to him, or delivered a personal letter or message from Sirius or his friends. But they had more important things to do, then talk to Harry. Harry Potter, the worthless freak.

So they didn't see him digging through trash all over the neighbourhood for newspapers or food scraps?  
>They didn't see him lying amongst the dying begonias outside the living-room window, so desperate for listening to the bloody Muggle television news?<br>They didn't see his uncle nearly throttling him tonight and Dudley beating him up again?

"Then where was everybody tonight?" asked Harry louder, getting upset again. "Dementors in Little Whinging! How am I supposed to deal with that, huh? I'm not allowed to use magic during the summer. I tried to cast a Patronus, but it didn't work. I hope the Ministry didn't send a letter about Underage magic and threatened to expel me, again. What should I do, if I'm not allowed back at Hogwarts? That's my home, not that bloody dump of Privet Drive!"

Harry shook his head in disbelief and slammed his right fist down again on the armrest of the chair and then his leg in frustration, without noticing what he did. He'd loved to throw something around the room in his mounting frustrated rage, the same feeling that had grown steadily over the past four weeks.

"This is all so crazy. Malfoy, my enemy rescues me and does more for me then – then anybody else this summer!" Harry cried out, while pulling desperately at his hair, then digging his fingernails into the skin of his other forearm, subconsciously trying to ground himself with the pain and not to break out into hysterical tears in front of these men, but he still felt moistness seeping out of the corners of his eyes.

His soul's and minds anguish was clear to see and feel for the dark wizards watching him. Harry's magic swirling and bending around him, some things in the room rattled, the candles wavered as if an icy wind was picking up.

This is too good to be true, thought Voldemort smugly, barely refraining from rubbing his hands together in malicious glee. Such cruelty, how the Light mentally and physically tortures its only hope! Potter feels completely lost and betrayed! Dumbledore must be getting senile, no sane chess master would weaken their white queen or knight this way! Splendid.

He quickly cast the counter to the compulsion charm, so that the boy could calm down again. He didn't want a nervous breakdown on his hands, Harry was distraught enough. It would be interesting how much he would tell them without magical influence, he had not resisted, lied or held back earlier when questioned about his wand.

Lucius' thoughts were similar. Dumbledore was such a fool. What had that old crackpot been thinking, forcing the boy to stay with these barbaric Muggles and cutting him of from any contact with decent people, with wizards? Even if they were blood traitors like the Weasleys or Sirius Black or that bushy haired Know-it-all Mudblood girl Draco always ranted about, that was better than nothing. And where had Potter's guard disappeared to that evening?

Voldemort waited patiently, until the sniffling boy had pulled himself together again, then he conjured a black handkerchief out of thin air right in front of Harry.

"We don't have any information yet where those Dementors came from," he said, "or who sent them. I certainly didn't. My people will listen to the Ministry grapevine in the next days, they will find out in time just who is responsible. That was a murderous attack on you, Potter. Whoever did this calculated with your death, or as good as. You will get your revenge in time. It's okay, Harry."

Harry blushed and flinched, but quickly recognized the item and whipped his eyes and blew his nose. After a minute he had calmed down enough to speak again.

"Thank you, sir. I hope you find the person behind this attack, I'd like to know why and how they did that. Oh, do you know what happened to my cousin?" Harry asked, looking from Voldemort to Lucius questioningly. "And, I thought the Dementors guard Azkaban prison?"

"Yes, they do," Lucius replied, "However, someone high up in the Ministry or Auror corps can command them elsewhere, like Fudge did two years ago to guard Hogwarts against Black."

"Oh, yes, you're right sir, of course!"

Voldemort also looked over to the blond. "Lucius? What happened to the Muggle boy?"

Malfoy answered, "I'm not sure, but I think he was probably kissed. As I already said, I Apparated away as fast as I could when Harry collapsed, intent on getting back here and to inform you, my Lord."

Voldemort smirked. "You did well. I sent Garrick back to investigate. He will report in time. I must say that I got the impression that our Harry here isn't very worried about his cousin?" He turned a questioning gaze to the boy.

Lucius sighed in relief that his master had mellowed out during the course of the evening. There had been many incidents in the past when he would have dealt out punishment if someone could not answer a question satisfactorily.

Harry wasn't sad about Dudley at all, so he answered, "You are right sir, good riddance. The world is a better place without Dudley Dursley. He and his gang are the greatest bullies, the hooligans of the neighbourhood. When his parents believe him to be invited for tea at one of his friends, they loiter on the streets, smoke, drink, and beat up ten year old boys, if they don't play their favourite game."

"Oh? And what would that be?" asked Voldemort.

Harry sneered and answered bitterly, "Can't you guess, sir, after watching those memories? Harry Hunting. Dud coined that phrase in primary school, such big words for his pea brain. Dudley's large, I'm small and much faster, so I used to be able to run away in the past quite often, at least when I was outside."

"I imagine so, you are good at slipping away," commented Voldemort. "What did Nagini call you? Sneaky raven," he chuckled.

Harry smiled thinly, it was a bitter smile. After a moment of hesitation he revealed, "This summer was the worst yet. Dudley, and of course his parents, were really, really angry about what happened last summer, so they're determined to pay me back. They don't believe me that it wasn't my fault, that I had no idea that the Weasleys would come by and do that. They think it was all my idea, and so they made sure I was punished."

Voldemort frowned, asking, "Harry, what happened last summer?"

Harry looked up astonished. "Oh, sorry, sir, of course you don't know. Well, last summer I was stuck at the Dursleys, as usual. They were not happy to have me in their house; especially after what I had done the summer before, when I blew up my uncle's sister."

"Was that accidental magic?"

"Yeah, sure. I didn't want to use magic on purpose, but I just got so angry!"

"Why?"

"Because Marge badmouthed my parents and me one too many times. She called my mum a bitch, said that if something is wrong with the pup, it should have been drowned at birth."

Scowling, Voldemort nodded. He recalled what Garrick had told him about Ms Hopkirk's stories concerning Harry Potter. So that's why he blew up that Muggle woman.

Lucius looked ready to kill the Dursleys. The Potters had been a nuisance, his opponents, his enemies. Lily Potter had been a fierce warrior, a beautiful and gifted witch, good at charms and potions, although she'd been a Mudblood. He, Lucius, could call her that, because he was a pure-blood. But nothing gave a stupid Muggle cow the right to talk in this way about Harry and his mother.

"One day in August," Harry continued his narrative, "Mrs Weasley sent a letter telling the Dursleys that they would pick me up and take me along to the Quidditch World Cup. So, on the appointed day we waited, and waited for hours. My relatives were very high strung, angry and nervous about the upcoming visit of some unknown wizards. They expected that the Weasleys would come by with a car, like normal, decent people."

Harry sighed. From his expression it was clear that this did not happen.

"And?" prompted Voldemort.

"Uhm, well, the Weasleys tried to use the Floo network. Only, my relatives' fireplace was blocked. They only have an electric fire. Mr Weasley used some spell, and the fireplace and the wall blew up. The lounge was ruined, everything covered with dust and stones and wood splinters. Mr Weasley and his sons emerged from the wreck."

"That didn't entice your relatives to be affable towards wizards and magic, did it?" observed Voldemort.

"No, it didn't," snorted Harry, shaking his head. "Well, the twins got my stuff; Mr Weasley tried to placate the furious Dursleys and told his sons and me to use Floo powder to get back to The Burrow. But right before we left, Fred let some sweets drop.

"Now you must know that Dudley is really a greedy pig,. He eats everything, so he snatched up one toffee and put it in his mouth. Only, this was no normal toffee. It was an invention of the twins, a trick sweet. His tongue grew to enormous size, lolling out of his mouth. He panicked I imagine and nearly choked. His parents screamed.

"Mr Weasley tried to calm them down, said he would make everything OK again with magic. They had a terrible row until he managed to clear this mess up. When he came out of the fireplace at the Burrow at last, he was quite upset with his sons for the trouble they had caused. Fred, George and Ron thought it was hilarious, a great joke. I must say I found it very funny too what happened, that Dudley was punished for his greediness, when he has taunted me countless times when I was near starving."

Voldemort heard the last part, although Harry had spoken very softly. He clamped down on his anger, already mentally accumulating an ever growing list of spells that would make the Muggle bastards suffer for what they had put Harry through.

"Now I understand why you said your cousin wanted to pay you back this summer," he commented, skirting around the issue of the punishment by his uncle, because he thought Harry would clam up at once if he asked directly. "He obviously did."

"Yeah," said Harry. "They, I mean the boys of his gang, have grown so much during the past year. I didn't. And from playing team sports and additionally with Dudley being trained as a boxer at his damned school, they got better at this fucking Harry Hunting than ever before. I didn't know Big D was that inventive? Well, I think his friend Piers got them hooked up on horror films and worse stuff." He bit his lip to stop himself from talking, balling his fists and ducking his head, while feeling an annoying flush travelling up his neck and ears.

Damn! Harry didn't want to say that much about Dud out loud. He didn't want to remember what Big D and his friends did to him. Or what Vernon did, or Petunia by turning a blind eye and ignoring Harry's suffering. If he shoved it away far enough, it hadn't happened. Period. That was in the Muggle world, not relevant here in the wizarding world.

Both older wizards inhaled sharply. Now they had an answer to some of their unvoiced questions. Voldemort remembered those harsh scenes from Potter's memories with the Muggle uncle trashing the boy. He'd also witnessed several memories with that fat boy and his gang chasing, bullying, beating him up, tormenting and finally sexually molesting Potter. Voldemort wasn't sure if these attacks went as far as to completed penetrative rape, but that was irrelevant. Forcing Potter, a wizard, to perform fellatio on his cousin and the other gang members was bad enough. How dare they, despicable Muggle filth!

Harry felt a sharp spike of pain in his scar. Unconsciously he reached up to massage his forehead, angry at the bloody headache flaring up again, and flushing in shame that he talked too much, revealed too much. He hated being so weak, emotional, not in control.

Both elder wizards noticed the wince and the gesture. Potter seemed to have a sudden headache, again, despite being dosed with several pain relievers. How strange.

After a glance for permission to his master, Lucius tried to assure the young man, "Don't be ashamed, Harry. We don't think less of you, and we know you are very strong to have survived until now. You have faced a dragon last year, merpeople, a sphinx, an Acromantula and Merlin knows what else, and us only weeks ago courageously. Whatever they did, whatever foul lies these Muggles spouted, it's not true and wasn't your fault."

Harry bit his lip, but nodded. "I know, thank you. It's just…I feel so …" He shook his head, rubbed his arms and then unconsciously scratched his thigh, as if he could rub or scratch off some persistent dirt.

"May I ask – what do you mean by horror films and worse stuff? What exactly did -" probed Lucius. Voldemort had only told him that Potter had been truly mistreated and bullied by the Muggles for many years, but he hadn't shown him examples of these memories.

Seeing Potter pale drastically, he quickly added, "You don't have to answer, Harry."

Harry exhaled, trying to calm himself. "Thank you, Mr Malfoy. You saw, you both saw enough. It's Muggle stuff. I don't want to talk about this. It's over; Dudley is most likely as good as dead. What matters is that I'm away from Privet Drive. I'm safe here from – from them."

Lucius and Voldemort exchanged another telling glance. Merlin's beard, thought Lucius. Those Muggles are truly monsters. The boy really feels safer here with us.

Harry looked over to Voldemort, feeling his scar throb and seeing the serpentine wizard scowl, he cringed.

"Harry, it is all right. You don't have to tell us about them if you are not ready. I am not angry _at_ _you_," said Voldemort. He narrowed his eyes. "Be assured that Lord Voldemort shall not tolerate some filthy Muggles harming any wizard. Before planning anything I'm waiting on Garrick's report, but when we go to visit your relatives it would expedite matters if you could provide the names and addresses of those gang members."

Harry blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected such an understanding and supportive reaction at all. That was – that was an incredible tempting offer. Voldemort had said 'when,' not 'if.' Did he really mean what he said?

"Wow. Thank you, sir. I – I don't know what to say. May I have some time to think about your offer?"

"Certainly. Revenge is a dish best served cold," replied Voldemort with a cruel expression that would have sent Harry running for the hills under other circumstances.

Tonight it warmed his heart. For a second his Gryffindor mind-set kicked in and he felt horrified that he wasn't horrified at all by the idea of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters descending upon Little Whinging and curse the shit out of the Dursleys and Dud's friends. Then his Slytherin side pushed the Gryffindor righteousness into a corner and applauded in gleeful malice. When he had lain bleeding and broken in the bushes of the playground, or in the shed, or locked in his stuffy cupboard or his dingy room, who had given a fuck about him? Who had asked where he was or what happened to him? Who had given him water, or took him to a GP? Nobody.

After a few moments of silence, he ventured to ask, "Sir? May I ask some general questions?"

"Go ahead," allowed Voldemort graciously.

"I'm worried when and how Dudley will be found and if the Dementors have attacked other Muggles. Is it possible that some witch in the Ministry noticed and sent a letter about underage magic to Privet Drive, because I tried to cast that Patronus? It was only some silvery vapour. Do you know how the Ministry will react? Or - would such an owl from the Ministry try to deliver the letter to me here at Malfoy Manor? Can any owls find me here? Can Hedwig, my owl find me?  
>And do you have any idea if Dumbledore already knows that something has happened? How soon will he notice that my glasses are supposedly far away north, on Iceland?"<p>

Harry looked mortified, he hadn't meant to ramble, but there where so many questions clamouring for an answer inside his head!

Voldemort chuckled. "Stop, stop, Harry, don't worry so much. To answer most of your questions, we have to wait on Garrick's and Severus' report tomorrow. About the owls, well, Lucius, what do you think?"

"The Manor's wards offer protection, it is Unplottable, but post owls are clever and persistent. So, I think it very possible that any owl with a letter addressed to Harry Potter would find their way here. If they only carry a normal letter or a package, the wards will let them though; one of the house elves will notice and take the letter or whatever from the post owl and send it on its way or to the Owlery. But if they or any items they carry are charmed with tracking spells, or a Portkey, the wards would repel them."

Harry looked at Malfoy frowning. "Pardon, Mr Malfoy, what does repel mean? Will the owl have to stay outside your garden, or outside the windows?"

"No, they will be obliterated, killed by the outer wards that surround my property. The wards give a warning to me, so I can send a servant or house elf or go myself to investigate what caused the alarm. Security measures, you understand?"

"Oh." Harry gulped and worried his lip. He feared for Hedwig's wellbeing.

"I know Ulysses can find Narcissa, Draco or me anywhere," stated Lucius. "Harry, did your owl show in the past that she is able to find you or people you wrote to at remote or well warded places?"

"Oh, yes, Hedwig can. For example in the summer before third year, when I ran away the first time, Hedwig found me in London, in the Leaky Cauldron that very same night. And last year she delivered a letter to Sirius when he wasn't even in Europe."

"Ah, I thought so," said Lucius, ignoring for the moment what the boy said about running away from the Muggles. "You know, I think I remember your owl. She was a very fine, pure white snowy owl, which was for sale in Eeloops Owl Emporium in the summer before your first year, wasn't she?"

Harry nodded, astonished that Malfoy remembered Hedwig. "Did you want to buy her, for Draco?"

"Why, yes, I was interested. She would have fit in well with our white peacocks."

"Peacoks? You have white peacocks in your garden?" asked Harry incredulously.

Lucius nodded, smiling.

Voldemort cleared his throat impatiently. "You two can chat another time about your birds!"

"Sorry sir!" chirped Harry.

Lucius paled. How could he be so at ease and ignore his lord?

Voldemort scowled, but let it slip for the moment. He calculated the time, how long it was since Potter, no, Harry, had attempted to cast the Patronus spell.

"I would not worry so much about the Ministry, Harry," he said. "The Dementors attacked you at about 09.20 pm. tonight, Lucius and Garrick Apparated with you to the gates of Malfoy Manor at 09.25 pm. If the Ministry had noticed and sent out their regular notice of offence against the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic, that owl should have arrived here already."

Harry looked dubious. "I hope so. Last time something happened, the owl with the bloody Ministry letter was in Surrey mere minutes after – after the charm was cast." Somehow he managed to stop himself before mentioning Dobby.

Malfoy looked at him curiously, before responding to Voldemort. "Your estimation is correct, my Lord." He turned to Harry. "You see, we are in Wiltshire, to the south-west of London. I have regular correspondence with the city, and it takes a post owl usually never more than fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour under very bad conditions like heavy rain and storm to fly this distance. Remember, they are magical post owls, not normal everyday birds."

"Okay, that's good," said Harry. "But that would mean that Hedwig should have found me by now, or not? That is, if my uncle hasn't captured her and locked her in, or – or killed her!" Harry looked around alarmed, as if he could see or summon Hedwig. "Please, Mr Malfoy! Can you send a house elf to check your wards perimeter? Hedwig is very intelligent. If someone cast a tracking charm on her, I believe she would know. Perhaps she can sense the danger, the magical boundary around your manor, so she stays outside the wards and waits that I come to get her?"

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Does that owl mean so much to you?"

Harry nodded, biting his lips. He would not break out in tears now, again. "Yes, she does. Hedwig is a good and reliable post owl and my only true friend. She was my first ever birthday present; Hagrid bought her for me on my eleventh birthday."

Voldemort and Malfoy exchanged an intense look of silent communication, until Voldemort briefly inclined his head. It was prudent to check for Potters owl, to know if she was tracked, or if she carried letters from his friends. Dumbledore would surely do something like this; use the boy's friends or his familiar ruthlessly to find the boy, risking the death of Potter's owl or other post owls.

Lucius snapped his fingers to summon Debby again and asked her to check the ward perimeter for a white owl. If such an owl was there, to tell the bird to wait in the trees opposite the gate and not to try to cross the hedge or gate until a wizard came to check on her.

Mentally shrugging it off, because he couldn't do anything more to keep Hedwig safe at the moment, Harry thought about his eleventh birthday, his experiences at Hogwarts and how people perceived him, how they reacted to him. He glanced from Malfoy to Voldemort; both looked at him thoughtful, perceptively.

"You see, sir," Harry began, "over the past four years, People never saw me, Just Harry; they see a role, a mask, the Boy-Who-Lived, the famous son of the talented, popular James Potter, the Golden Boy puppet of the Headmaster. They all hate me on the drop of a hat if I do something unexplainable or unexpected. Well, apart from Hermione, and maybe the Weasley twins."

When Voldemort only angled his head, cocking an eyebrow, but otherwise continued to watch him calmly, Harry took this as permission to speak freely, to continue to voice his thoughts and doubts, clearing his jumbled mind and emotions as he spoke.

"And Snape, yeah. He always, from day one, hated me for just existing, because of something my dad and Sirius did to him way back. I don't know the details, I think Sirius set Remus upon him, and dad got cold feet at the last moment. That was terrible, how could they do that? I understand that he hates the Marauders, but why me?"

Harry didn't expect an answer, although he noticed the telling glances between Malfoy and Voldemort. They would know what had occurred some twenty or so years back, wouldn't they? Maybe they would tell him, but that wasn't so important right now. It felt so liberating to be able to speak to them, two important, powerful wizards, without being cut off or judged. Or being distracted, herded off, or lied to as it had happened so often. For example on that Friday afternoon of his very first week at the school, when he'd visited Hagrid together with Ron and complained about the Potions master's unfairness and the gentle half-giant had brushed him off. Although after third year Harry was sure that all the grown-ups around him knew very well just why Snape and the Marauders hated and loathed each other so much; just as they had known about Sirius Black.

"I never knew Snape before I came to Hogwarts. I didn't _do _anything to him, well, as far as I know. I didn't steal the Gillyweed in February, that was – someone else." Harry sighed. "With Snape, it's like a mirror to Sirius, Hagrid, Lupin or McGonagall. I believe all of them see James, a Mini-James, but not _me_. But at least Snape is constant in his disdain. I'm less than scum under his boot, and that will never change. He kind of grounds me.

"The other students, they are so shallow. One day, I am adored and fanned over, the next day I'm called evil because I can speak to snakes like in second year, and a liar and cheater, although I didn't enter my name into the Goblet of Fire. Your man, the fake Moody, got me into the tournament and helped me, because you wanted me at your rebirth party back in June. Cedric is dead, it's all my fault. Everything because I am bloody Harry Potter. I hate all that so much."

Harry sighed and shook his head, before he sat up straight, brushing his fringe back once again and locked eyes with the red orbs studying him so calculatingly. "Sir, you said earlier that you think me intriguing. So, if I am intriguing enough to let me live, and to serve you, and in some way to repay Mr Malfoy and Mr Avery for saving my life tonight, then please tell me. Otherwise I ask you to just kill me here. No more leading me around, toying with me like the Headmaster does. Please don't play any games with me."

Resonating silence met his words. Voldemort was trying to process everything he had heard tonight, but there was so much that screamed for explanation and clarification. The boy had no self-esteem, no sense of self-worth, he was the victim of life-long abuse, but typically believed it to be his fault and his shame.

Potter was fed up with his life and the wizarding world, understandably, but what did he mean with 'second year and can speak to snakes?' Or that the Headmaster led him around? Did the boy already understand on some level how Dumbledore manipulated him? And why wasn't Potter trained properly? Why didn't he know of _The Prophesy_? What was Dumbledore playing at, letting Muggles break the boy again and again over the summers?

Harry waited for a reaction, but Voldemort just stared at him, until he glanced to his right-hand man. Harry peeked over at the blond wizard. Malfoy seemed angry, but remained quiet.

Looking up at the Dark Lord again, the raven haired teenager fidgeted for a moment before asking, "Sir, the only favours I beg of you are, whatever you do, don't send me back to that house. Secondly, regardless if you decide to either keep me here or to kill me, please help to save my most precious things from certain destruction; I think they can still be of use to you or someone else."

Voldemort gestured for him to continue. "Your possessions? What is irreplaceable? Schoolbooks and robes you can buy again."

Potter flinched at the abrupt movement, but caught himself quickly. After taking a deep breath he explained, "It's not much, just my broom, an Invisibility cloak I inherited from my dad and a photo album. I'm afraid my uncle will burn my trunk, books, school robes and all of my belongings if I or someone else don't come back soon to claim my things. Mr Malfoy knows of my broom, it's an expensive racing broom, a Firebolt. It would be a shame if it was burnt. Please, sir, send someone to Privet Drive before it is too late."

Voldemort felt as if the world had truly spun of its axis. The boy turned his back on Dumbledore, he felt utterly betrayed, and he spoke calmly about dying or serving him, Malfoy and Avery. He had earlier offered to 'repay' Malfoy, although he had no concept of his own worth and was obviously scared of the man touching him. However, now Potter was truly distressed about the fate of his personal things and his familiar? He valued that owl more than his own life or freedom?

"Harry, you will answer my questions, and I will allow you to live," Voldemort spoke calmly and very seriously. "I will not play games with you. As long as you are useful, and obey me, and don't betray my or the Malfoy's secrets or security, you shall live. There is so much to discuss between us, that you will stay around quite a while, just like Scheherazade I suppose, depending on the tales you can tell me.

"Until tonight I believed that I _must_ kill you, to protect myself, according to The Prophesy. However, that is something we have to gather more information on. Nevertheless, you _are_ the Boy-Who-Lived, you will never be ordinary. Forget that wish. And about your possessions, I told you earlier that I send Garrick back to Little Whinging. He will look around; see what your relatives and the other Muggles are doing. Perhaps he'll have a chance to search their house and retrieve your things."

Harry blinked; did Voldemort make a strange kind of joke? Scheherazade? An old fairy-tale, wasn't it?

He won't kill me any time soon. He listens to me. He promised to pay the Dursleys back. Avery might get a chance to find my stuff. I get to stay here, in a wonderful room. I'm safe here. That's something. This is actually pretty good, better than anything I could've hoped for only three hours ago. But, what does Voldemort mean, what _Prophesy?_ He mentioned that a while ago, when he called me the 'Child of Prophesy'. I'll have to ask later, tomorrow; he cannot mean that, can he? Divination is drivel, crap, humbug. The thoughts raced each other through Harry's tired, overwrought mind_._

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><p>Edit AN: I forgot to explain the dark compulsion that Lord Voldemort casts on Harry to lower his inhibitions and to 'spill the beans': <em>Duco<em> I made this hex up from Latin, meaning to charm and/or influence, mislead and/or draw in. This is not a curse as forceful or straightforward as Imperius, and an accomplished Occlumens like for example Snape would be able to resist. But on an emotionally distressed, tired and exhausted mind like Harry's it worked quite good.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer and Warnings, please see chapter 1.

A/N: I decided to include a glimpse again of what is happening on the side of the_ Light_. Will Sirius and his friends see the light, the truth, or wade deep in DeNile? Did someone know what was happening to Harry, but ignored it? Only time will tell.

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><p><em>Flashback:<br>After meeting Sirius Black and watching the Dursleys, Garrick Avery left to go to London. Meanwhile, Sirius has searched through the Dursley's house, and then he noticed people Apparating outside, whom he recognized as fellow Order members._

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><p><span>Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, late at night on the 2nd of August 1995.<span>

Sirius opened the door of the Dursleys' house from the inside, only to stare at a wand tip pointed threateningly at his chest.

"Whoa, Moony, it's just me," he said with his trademark lopsided smile, trying very hard to act normally. "Nice of you lot to finally show up. What took you so long?"

Remus scrutinised him, not lowering his wand.

"Wotcher Sirius," greeted Tonks from behind Remus. Arthur and Mad-Eye stood next to her, all with wands drawn.

Sirius rolled his eyes and addressed Remus. "Oh come on Moony, lower your wand. I'm not the enemy."

"What is your nickname?" asked Remus suspiciously.

"Padfoot," Sirius replied.

"Oh no, that's too easy" growled Mad-Eye in his typical paranoia. "What did you do an hour ago?"

Sirius sighed. "I played Exploding Snap with the twins and Ginny, I lost, and the cards blew up in my face." He looked from the old Ex-Auror to Remus and Arthur, who nodded.

"It's him," Arthur confirmed, while Remus chuckled, lowering his wand and smiling sheepishly. "Sorry Sirius. But you could have been a Death Eater using Polyjuice potion, after he overwhelmed you."

Sirius barked a harsh laugh, masking his unease. "Yes, I could," while thinking, _You have no idea!_ He opened the door wide, stepping back and gesturing to the group. "Do come in."

"Good idea, we shouldn't talk outside," said Mad-Eye, stomping into the hallway past Sirius, the others filing behind.

"And? What happened?"

"Did you find anything?"

"Was a Dementor here?"

"You shouldn't have run off like that, how reckless! Dumbledore is quite angry."

"What happened to the wards?"

"Where is Harry?"

"Where are the Muggles?"

"Did you speak with Arabella?"

Mad-Eye, Remus, Tonks and Arthur fired off their questions, once Sirius had closed the door behind them. Tonks curiously inspected the hallway and walked into the brightly lit kitchen. They all followed her, also looking around, taking in the absurd state of pristine cleanness.

"One thing after the other! The house is empty," answered Sirius, thinking how eerily similar this situation was to how he himself had asked that Death Eater not so long ago about Harry. Now he had answers, but like the Slytherin he would hold back information and try to find out what the others knew.

"I've no clue where Harry is." He patted himself mentally on the shoulder, for lying so fluently and without blushing. Well, it was true; he didn't know where Harry was, only that his godson was relatively safe. "But I found out a bit of what has been going on. It was fortunate that I came here on my own, and right away after Mundungus raised the alarm."

That drew a chorus of excited "Yes?" and "Ohs," and "Do tells!"

Sirius raised his right hand. "Stop, wait a moment. Before I tell you what I know, or suspect, I have a few questions of myself. I discovered some things, but I'm not sure if I understand or interpret them correctly, so I would like your input, your unbiased input first, Okay?"

The others stared confused at him, but nodded.

"I've been here, what, maybe half an hour? Why did you arrive just now? What took you so long?" Sirius asked pointedly. "What if I had needed backup? What if a Dementor or Death Eaters had attacked Harry or me?"

They exchanged uneasy glances, then Arthur answered, "Well, we," he gestured between himself and Remus, "we first wanted to question Mundungus some more. He tried to talk himself out of trouble, but he obviously left guard duty just for some crocked business. Imagine, he left Harry all alone for several hours tonight! Then it took a while until we got hold of Albus. Remus send his Patronus. After a few minutes, Albus came to headquarters. He questioned Mundungus. Oh, he was so furious, it was scary! He asked where you were. Only then did we notice that you were gone. Albus cursed and called you a – a reckless fool. Sorry, Sirius."

Sirius brushed it off. "Doesn't matter. Go on!"

The others looked astonished. Arthur cleared his throat. "Well, Albus used the Floo to go to his office at Hogwarts. He said he urgently needed to check something. A few minutes later he opened a Floo connection again and told us that Harry seemed to have truly disappeared from Surrey, that the wards around his relatives house have fallen and that he had sent messages to Mad-Eye and Tonks. Albus told us that we should meet them in Little Whinging and try to find out what happened there since seven pm. We all came straight here to question his relatives."

"Okay, okay. So what does Albus think, is Harry still alive?" Sirius snarled, his grey eyes darting from one of his Order colleagues to the other. They didn't want to meet his gaze. Arthur and Remus looked crestfallen, Mad-Eye grumpy, Tonks stayed in the background, she could not contribute to the discussion, because she didn't know anything.

Finally Remus answered, "Sirius, stay calm. Albus, he – he said he believes that Harry is still alive. He said something that Harry is maybe far north, in northern Scotland, or on one of the islands, like the Shetlands, or Orkney's."

Sirius ground his teeth and growled. "Did he say he is sure, or is that only his hope, his believe, that Harry is indeed alive and somewhere up north?"

The group just looked worried and unsure at each other and at him.

"Harry will be all right, Sirius. He is a clever boy; he got out of sticky situations before." Arthur tried his best to reassure Sirius and himself.

"Yes, but my godson shouldn't have to look after himself and find a way out of whatever mess happened to him! He is supposed to relax and recuperate during the summer from his ordeal of the last school year, isn't he?" Sirius didn't have to pretend to be furious.

"Yes, of course, you're right," said Arthur. "Molly is distraught, and she doesn't know half of what we know. She only heard a bit of what Mundungus said, because she was busy herding the children upstairs and keeping them out of the way. You said you found something, that you have some suspicious as to what happened?"

Sirius huffed and leaned against the kitchen counter. He wasn't sure how to ask, but he had to keep talking, and just see how they would react. He prayed to all the gods in the universe that none of his fellow Order members had known, had tolerated what went on in this house, but that raised the question why hadn't anyone noticed anything?

He brushed some of his shaggy, long black hair back and fixed them with a stern gaze. "I'm very worried about Harry, so I must ask this first. Was any of you before tonight in this house?"

Mad-Eye, Remus and Tonks answered in the negative, only Arthur said, "Yes, once. Last summer."

Sirius nodded. "Where were you? I mean, how did you enter the house? Which rooms did you see? Did you meet his relatives? What an impression did you have of them?"

Mad-Eye interrupted impatiently. "Sirius, what has Arthur's visit from last summer to do with the situation at hand? We need to find out what happened tonight, why the wards have fallen and where that boy is!"

Sirius bristled and growled like the Grim he was in Animagus form. "It has a lot to do with the current situation, there is a connection!"

They all stared at him bewildered. "Tell your story, every little detail you remember!" Sirius snarled at Arthur. "It is very important, believe me."

And so Arthur recounted what had happened last summer. Sirius listened intently, and the others as well. They made exclamations of humour or surprise. The story sounded quite funny, from Arthur's point of view. The Muggles acted like stupid Muggles, because who would block their fireplace with an ekletretic or whatever artificial fire? The Muggles seemed to have been unreasonably angry and afraid of the magic, and at the end Arthur's twin sons had played a prank on Harry's cousin.

"Of course I scolded them when we were back at the Burrow, what they did was quite mean, it scared the Muggles," Arthur ended his story.

"So, you had the impression they were not very fond of magic, and of Harry? Wouldn't it have been better to pick Harry up in another fashion?" asked Sirius.

"No. Well, yes perhaps. I already had expected a bit of resentment, well, my sons have said since first or second year that Harry didn't like his relatives much. But I honestly didn't expect their fireplace to be blocked, and I didn't know the twins would drop a trick sweet for his cousin. The parents were quite panicked because their son got that long tongue. That was unfortunate, but not such a big deal, easy to fix. I mean I charmed everything back to rights before I left."

"Hm. And you yourself were only in the sitting room, not in the hallway or upstairs?" asked Sirius.

Arthur looked confused, but nodded. "Yes."

"Okay, thank you Arthur, that will do," Sirius said briskly, clamping down on his temper. From listening to Petunia and Vernon he had gotten the impression that it had been quite the traumatic visit and that they blamed Harry for everything. He wanted to hex Arthur for his naivety and stupidity, but the friendly ginger man was of the firm belief that Muggles were interesting, but essentially harmless, that Muggles had to be protected from wizard pranks, cursed items or any attacks.

Mad-Eye looked shrewdly from him to Arthur and back. He seemed to weigh Arthur words carefully, as if he tried to find what Sirius thought so relevant.

Sirius turned to his cousin. "I know that you had guard duty about once or twice per week. Sturgis, Elphias, Hestia, and Emmeline took a few shifts too, but overall Mundungus got the most shifts, simply because he has no regular job. Are we in agreement that this is correct?"

"Yeah," replied the young witch. "So what?"

"Just bear with me, please. Now, I have a very important question for you Tonks. When you had guard duty, did you ever speak to Harry?" inquired Sirius.

Tonks shook her pink hair. "No, of course not. You know we are not supposed to be seen or to interact with the boy or the Muggles."

"Yes, I know, Tonks." Sirius said, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. "I was just wondering if maybe, just maybe you disregarded Albus' orders and chatted a bit with Harry? You are quite young, it could be possible that you took a chance to talk to Harry, to get to know him, see him from up close?"

Tonks blinked at him, and looked around at the others, then she seemed to swell up like a bullfrog, her hair standing up and changing colour rapidly. "No! I didn't, what do you think?" She spoke quite angrily in a defensive tone. "I followed orders. I'm not some little school girl any more, I'm a fully qualified Auror!"

Sirius raised his hands to placate her. "Okay, okay, I didn't want to imply that you weren't reliable!"

"Then why do you ask such strange questions?" she spat at him.

"Yes, I'd like to know that myself!" growled Mad-Eye, angry at the perceived slight at his protégée.

Sirius bit his lip, fighting to keep his own volatile temper in check. He understood the impatience of his fellow Order members only too well. "I'll explain later. Please, I realize this makes no sense to you at this moment, but it will make sense soon. Remus, Mad-Eye, you didn't have guard duty, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't," replied Mad-Eye curtly.

Remus stared at him, the confusion showing in his tired face. "No, you know that Sirius."

"Yes, but I wanted to make absolutely sure I don't get something mixed up. I don't want to jump to the wrong conclusion, okay?" Sirius chuckled, looking at Remus, trying to mask his unsettled state with levity. "I know, I'm not famous for thinking before putting my foot into my mouth and before doing something stupid, but I'm really trying tonight, okay?"

Remus smiled. "No, you were never Ravenclaw material, at all."

Sirius addressed the young woman with the heart shaped face and the now brilliant yellow hair again. "Tonks, when you were here at Privet Drive, from where did you watch the street and this house? How close was your point of observation?"

Tonks looked very confused now. "What does that matter?"

Sirius looked imploringly at her. "It matters. Please?"

"Well, I often sat on top of the garage from number ten, it's nice and shady there because of the tree growing on the border between ten and twelve. From there I could keep both ends of the street under observation and if any Death Eaters had appeared, I would have spotted them right away, while they couldn't see me because I was under Mad-Eyes' Invisibility cloak."

Mad-Eye looked proud at the young woman; he seemed to think her choice of observation point prudent.

Sirius hadn't had the chance to walk the street up and down to both ends, but when he trotted after the Dursleys from Wisteria Walk he'd gotten a vague impression of the length and the distance between the houses. All the lots were the same size, the houses all large and square, very uniform.

Thinking about this, the Animagus suddenly could imagine that the so called Potter guard would not have heard or seen if his relatives had neglected Harry, or if they heaped verbal and physical abuse and Merlin knows what else on him inside the house. And if Mundungus had left his post tonight, it was very possible that he had done it before. That guy was often funny, but totally unreliable.

Sirius figured that if Tonks had stayed on that garage roof, and if the other supposed watchers had chosen the same or similar observation spots and none of them had made an attempt to actually talk to Harry, it was no wonder why nobody of them had seen Harry up close, hadn't noticed any bruises or cuts.

He also got the impression that none of the watchers had known Harry personally before. None of them had seen him up close at the end of fourth year, so they had no idea how he really looked like when healthy or how he normally behaved. Come to think of it, Sirius didn't know either. He had only ever seen Harry under pressure, for short interactions, never in a relaxed atmosphere and free of any sorrows and burdens.

"Sirius?" Remus nudged his arm to get him out of whatever funk he had sunk into. The gaunt face of his friend looked haunted. Remus was getting extremely worried.

Sirius looked up and smiled a wan smile, which didn't reach his eyes. "All right, thank you for answering my questions," he said. "Now I would like you all to walk around this house and just look. Look into every room you find."

"Why?" echoed at Sirius from the incredulous, confused group.

"Shouldn't we look outside for his relatives? Potter isn't here, obviously." Moody blustered impatiently. "This is all a waste of time!"

Standing tall and squaring his shoulders, Sirius looked at him with a hard glare. "Mad-Eye, Tonks, imagine this house is a crime scene and you are the first Aurors or Hitwizards to arrive. Go over all the rooms and observe, see what you make of it," Sirius spoke in a firm, blunt way, as if he was addressing a team of Aurors listening to a new assignment; he remembered how his trainer had spoken to him. "Do the standard scanning you would do if you were called to a missing person case, probably a murder case."

He briskly turned to the Head of the Weasley clan, instructing him in a similar way. "Arthur, you have seen many houses and flats or shops before, belonging to wizards and Muggles. Imagine you are searching for some cursed object, if that helps you to get into a professional mind set." Last, Sirius spoke to the Werewolf, his old school friend. "Remus, allow Mooney to come out. Search for our cub." He looked again at the whole group, studying their facial reactions. "Come back to the living room in five minutes. That should be enough to get a good first impression. We'll sit down and you each tell me and the others what you found."

They all stared at him with alarm in their eyes.

"What?" Mad-Eye growled, his magical eye already spinning around, as he began to scan the kitchen and the hallway in earnest.

"Oh Merlin, Sirius, what do you think?" Remus cried out.

"Why do you say that?" spluttered Tonks, her hairdo reminiscent of a frightened red brown hedgehog.

"Merlin's beard, what happened? Do you think - ?" Arthur couldn't finish the sentence. He felt fear claw at his insides, a cold shudder raced down his spine. Did Sirius believe that Harry had been murdered inside this house?

Sirius crossed his arms in front of his chest, before he firmly said, "No, I won't answer. Not yet. I don't want to influence you anymore. I'll tell you about what I discovered and what I think it means in a few minutes. But I want your honest opinions of what _you_ see, of what _you_ think has happened in this house. Maybe I'm completely wrong, and there is another perfectly logical explanation."

They all stared at him, then looked at each other and shrugged. Moody and Tonks whipped out their wands, and exchanged a few words, suddenly all business. Tonks hurried into the hallway and upstairs, while Moody went into the living room, looking around, throwing scanning spells on the floor, walls, and the furniture.

Arthur and Remus looked as if they were going to be sick from worry, but they pulled themselves together and began to slowly walk about, taking in the atmosphere of the house, examining the pictures in the hallway.

Arthur went back into the kitchen and opened the cold-box, some cupboards and drawers at random. He didn't find anything particularly interesting, save a microwave. He noticed that there was a back door, presumably leading out into the garden. He tested it, it was open, not locked. There were no signs of forced entry. He took out his wand and cast a basic scanner. There was a residue of a simple spell, nothing dark. Alohomora most likely.

Because Moody was still scanning the living room Remus and Arthur didn't enter that room, they didn't want to interfere with his results. Remus closed his eyes and wrinkled his nose, and sniffed with deep breaths. He opened his eyes again and walked the hallway up and down, looking to the left and right, at the front door, the kitchen and the living room door. He quietly went up the stairs, turned around on the spot and walked slowly down again. He frowned.

Arthur noticed and came to his side. "What is it, Remus?" he whispered.

Sirius had watched them and came to the kitchen door, struggling to keep his face impassive, his breathing even; to not give away that there might be something interesting underneath the stairs. He had been waiting for this to happen and was keen to observe their honest reactions.

"I don't know, I'm not sure," Remus answered. He looked at the stairs again, and let his gaze travel downward and over the walls of the hallway. Suddenly, his dark eyes honed in on a small door. The door to the cupboard under the stairs.

In the same moment, Tonks appeared on the upstairs landing. Her face was white as a sheet, her spiky hair now violet streaked with black.

"Mad-Eye!" Tonks called urgently. "Mad-Eye, come up here!"


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer and general Warnings see chapter 1. This chapter contains some very mild D/s type interaction between LV and HP, and a description of the abuse by VD.

AN: Special thanks to BloodyRose90 for helping me with the Muggle news part of this chapter.

Hello to you, my dear readers,

I apologize. I'm so sorry it took so long to update and that I don't manage to answer everybody who reviews personally, but that will not get much better in the future. To those of you so urgently demanding updates, please remember that I do research and write in my spare time - for fun, like all those other fanfic writers - with plenty of interruptions and distractions by real life.  
>I do not have a time turner, you know? I wish!<br>Thank you for all those hundreds of Alerts, Favourites, PM and kind, encouraging Reviews, I'm truly grateful and swept of my feet. Uhm, *smilies sheepishly* I did edit all the previous chapters (Edit AN: and this one also by now!) to fix things some reviewer's hawk eyes spotted. I hope it's better to read now, especially the dialogue parts? Thank you all so much for helping to improve this story.

Okay, on with the show! This chapter is the longest yet. It's actually four chapters stuffed into one to make up for the long wait.

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><p><span>Garden of Malfoy Manor, somewhere in Wiltshire, England, early morning of August 3rd 1995<span>

Dewdrops glistened on leaves, birds sang in a rousing chorus as the sun rose over the rim of the world. The early morning air was still blessedly cool and refreshing. The soft, rhythmic crunch of his footsteps on the gravel path was the only other sound.

Voldemort rounded another bend in the spiralling evergreen maze, hands burrowed deep in the pockets of his robe. Now and then he fingered a small role of parchment in his left pocket, or the holly wand in his right pocket. Potter's wand had worked superb with a variety of normal, everyday spells and defensive, neutral magic like Protego or Stupefy. He'd not attempted to cast aggressive, dark combat spells with it, so far. He didn't want to push his luck.

The yew wand was as always ready for instant action in another pocket of his robes. Round and round he prowled over the winding and criss-crossing paths. He wasn't lost in the maze – he knew it well - he was lost in thought, going over the startling events of the previous evening, contemplating the reports he had received so far and planning the rest of the day.

If yesterday had been extraordinary, what would happen today? He was full of anticipation, sure that something momentous would occur, however whether fortuitous or disastrous? Who knows? Now and then he looked up, scanning the sky for owls bringing him news, although he knew it was much too early for the Daily Prophet. Yet. Yet.

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><p><span>Black Town House, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London, England, same date and time.<span>

_Crack._

_Crack._

Two identical young men with ginger hair Apparated into the girl's bedroom, just as the sun was rising outside._  
><em>

"Hmmmm?" came from one of the beds.

"Uh? Whatsit?" a sleepy voice mumbled.

"Lemmealone." A blanket was pulled firmly over bushy, brown hair, only to be tugged away again.

"Hey, get off my bed!" Ginny complained.

"Get out! This is the girls' bedroom!" screeched Hermione, finally waking up enough to register who had the nerve to disturb her at this ungodly early hour of the morning.

"Dear young ladies!" Fred's chirpy voice greeted them.

"Rise and shine!" George ordered.

"Oh! Fred, George. Who else." Ginny recognized her brothers.

"What do you want?" Hermione demanded crossly, holding her hand in front of her mouth to stifle a yawn.

"What do we want?" George replied in an incredulous tone.

"She asks, in all her brilliance -," Fred continued to speak in the irritating twin speak they favoured.

"Could we want to talk about,"

"What happened last night?"

"Or this morning?"

"Oh! Did you hear something new?" Hermione asked. "Where's Harry?"

"Is he alright?" Ginny wanted to know.

"We don't know," responded Fred. "Harry is really missing. I think they don't know at all where he could be, or if he's even still around."

Hermione paled drastically. "No, please, no."

"Oh, Harry," Ginny moaned in distress.

"Mum's really, really down." George said. "She must've cried, the way she looks."

"Depressing." Added his brother. "She's in the kitchen now, cooking and baking like a mad woman."

"That's her way to cope with stress," George explained. "We haven't seen dad this morning, he's already at the Ministry."

"Do you - do you think some Death Eaters got Harry?" Ginny asked.

"We don't know." Fred shrugged. "But – we heard something, with -,"

George continued, "The famous Extendable Ears. Sirius has just left the house - , "

"Together with Remus. They are headed North, to Scotland. Some place called Firth or something. Isle of Skye, isle of Lewis. And probably further," Fred recounted.

Ginny looked up puzzled. "Why?"

"What do you mean, further?" Hermione inquired. "Some place further away than Scotland?"

"Yep." George nodded. "That's our impression from the words we caught."

"Mind you, it was really difficult to listen in and to watch them." Fred added.

"Do you know what 's beyond Scotland main land Hermione?" George asked, sure that the Know-It-All would spout the facts out as always.

"The Atlantic ocean and the North sea. Small islands, like the Hebrides, Shetland, Orkney, Faeroe." Hermione rattled off the list. "And far away – Norway, Iceland, Greenland, Canada."

"Do you mean they think Harry's somewhere up north?" Ginny asked. "On one of the islands there? And Sirius and Remus are going to search for him?"

"Yeah. They had maps, and I think a tent, blankets, a rucksack each," Fred reported. "I saw from the upper landing how Remus and Sirius shrank down and stuffed some things into their pockets."

George continued. "Mum gave them a basket with sandwiches along, and some bottles, which Remus shrunk down too. She tried to talk them out of it, said Dumbledore didn't give permission, that it's much too dangerous for Sirius to leave the house again, that other Order members can take turns searching, and Sirius - ."

"He swore, he cussed, like you've never heard before. And he said, he's not giving a rat's arse what Dumbledore says any more." Fred finished the sentence.

Ginny gasped, "Blimey."

"What!" Hermione exclaimed. "He said that?"

"Yes," George confirmed, and there was no joking manner about the way he spoke at all. "He said he's not slept a minute last night, he can't stay here. He's going after Harry. Sirius believes he is probably, hopefully still alive. He said if there is one tiny chance that Harry's not dead yet, he will search for him, and if he has to turn over every stone in Scotland, he'll do it."

"He said, he couldn't live with himself otherwise. He said, 'I must do this, please Molly, understand. Harry's my godson, and I've let him down. I haven't cared for him as I should have. Last night, Dumbledore had a lead north, and I must follow that. I must go, right now, before the trail grows colder.'," Fred quoted Sirius.

George took over again. "And mum cried, and wished them luck, and embraced him, and Remus, and then they left."

"Merlin's soggy pants!" Ginny commented.

"Yeah. Spot on, Ginny," said Fred.

"Where's Ron?" Hermione wanted to know.

"Sleeping, like a log," George answered.

Hermione huffed. "Hmph! How can he sleep like a baby, when Harry is missing or probably dead?"

"Don't say that, Hermione! Sirius will find Harry. He must find him. He must!" Ginny was near tears.

"Of course, Gin. I'm just so worried. I've had such a bad feeling for weeks," said Hermione.

"Yeah, me too." Ginny nodded.

"Same here." Fred and George chorused together.

"I wish I could do something to help Harry," said Hermione.

"Yeah, but we can't, we're stuck in this Merlin forsaken grubby, spooky house," groused George.

"If Hedwig would come, we could give her letters along." Ginny proposed. "Tell Harry that we haven't forgotten him, that we're so sorry for not responding to his letters."

"But Professsor Dumbledore said -," Hermione started, but was interrupted at once by her younger friend.

"I know, Hermione. I know. But Harry's gone, Merlin knows where. Errol's too old, he might die, when he has to fly so far. He isn't cut out for long journeys."

A collective sigh escaped the teens, uneasy silence falling between them.

"Stop mopping, that won't help Harry either," said Fred.

"Yeah. He wouldn't want that." George added.

"How can you say that?" Hermione countered angrily. "We don't have any idea what Harry would wish or want just now. I only know he didn't want to stay at his Muggle relatives. He's unhappy there, always was."

The others nodded.

"I wish I'd dared to write him, or call him," Hermione said, wringing her hands, "despite what Professor Dumbledore told us."

"Yeah, you're right. We should have found a safe way to contact him," stated George, thinking that it would be brill to come up with a device for secret, silent, undetectable instant communication. Or maybe someone had invented something useful already? Hm, when Remus and Sirius were back he would ask them. His father might have come across an artefact like this in his job, but he would most likely not tell them - to prevent more mischief-making and pranks.

"Do you think we should practice for our NEWTs, Hermione?" Fred asked, determined to do something against the worried and frustrated atmosphere in the room.

"What!?" exclaimed Hermione. How could Fred think of school stuff now?

He smirked at her mischievously. "I heard that Aguamenti is a standard spell they want to see demonstrated in the Charms NEWT, same as Orchideous, or did I mix that up with the Transfiguration NEWT?"

Hermione caught on quickly. That would serve Ron right, the lazy sod. They all were so worried about Harry, talking loudly, and he didn't wake up at the noise in the next room.

"Oh, yes, Fred," she said. "You should practise. Revising during the holidays is very important. The NEWTs decide about your future career opportunities, after all. I propose you practise right above Ron's bed, as Orchideous is a charm that conjures a bouquet of flowers. At the same time you'll need lots of cool water to keep them fresh. Aguamenti is basically a Transformation of gaseous water out of the air into liquid water."

"Look who's read ahead." George smirked, not very surprised that Hermione knew this sixth year material.

"Do you know how to conjure up a large vase for the flowers, dear bro?" Ginny chimed in, eager to play a prank on her youngest brother. "Maybe you should practise to transfigure his blanket or cushion? I'd like a clear glass vase, with a narrow opening, so it's more difficult to aim the gush of water inside."

"Thanks my fair ladies for your moral support." George bowed in an exaggerated fashion, sniggering.

"George and I really need to practise more," Fred said with mock earnest. "Mum would be so disappointed if we didn't achieve at least three NEWTs! We'll never be as good as perfect prat Percy or Head Boy Bill, but we can do this."

"Come along girls!" George strode to the door."We need you as witnesses for mum that this is no prank, but serious, important school work!"

All the teenagers giggled and chuckled in wicked amusement and anticipation.

"Well, then shoo! We'll be ready in ten minutes. Let us dress and run through the bathroom, we don't want to shock Ron. I don't know if he would survive a pyjama party with girls _and_ boys this early in the morning, and everything _before_ breakfast!" Hermione said, grinning.

"K'!" Fred mock saluted her and pulled his brother out into the hallway. "See you soon."

* * *

><p><span>Small guest room, Malfoy Manor, somewhere in Wiltshire, England, late morning of August 3rd 1995<span>

When Harry finally surfaced from the deep, calm, blank abyss created by Dreamless Sleep, he didn't know where he was at first. His stomach twisted itself into a knot of fear, which lessened when nothing happened, at all. Blinking, he took stock of his condition and looked around. He was in the guest room – no, his new room - that was dimly illuminated by a shaft of sunshine peeking in trough a slit in the green and light grey striped curtains.

He'd slept wonderfully, no fears and nightmares tormenting him for the first time in what felt like forever. It was quiet in the room, he seemed to be alone. And, he tested carefully, he was not restrained in any way, his hands, arms and legs free to move. He felt sore all over, with a faint headache, but not in terrible pain. His body was covered in some incredibly comfortable, slick, soft material. Oh, now he remembered, Mr Malfoy had given him a pair of Draco's silk pyjamas.

Overall, this morning was much better compared to the morning of the previous day, when he woke up from the loud knocking on the door and the usual screeched, 'Up boy! Make breakfast!' call of his aunt, the scratchy sheet on his dingy bed uncomfortably sticking to his shoulders and back because of the dried blood from the welts his uncle had dealt out the evening before. That had hurt.

Slowly he raised himself into a sitting position, untangled his legs from the light summer blanket and got out of bed. He stood a moment still, waiting if any dizziness would occur like last night, but he felt all right. His bladder urged him to find the bathroom post haste, so he went there first.

Upon entering the doorway, the room lit up by its self, there were two bright orbs to the left and right of the mirror above the sink. The bathroom looked similar to the one in Voldemort's chambers, with white, greenish and blue marble tiles and water-life themed decorations. Harry noticed a shower stall and also an old fashioned, clawed feet bathtub. After finishing his business and washing his hands, with a quirky greeting by the talking mirror which he ignored, "High time to get up, sleepy head. My goodness, you do look dreadful! Take a shower and brush that hair!" Harry ambled back through his bedroom to the window, his footsteps quiet on the polished floorboards, and pulled aside the curtains.

Bright sunlight forced him to close his eyes for a moment, Harry blinked until they adjusted themselves. Now he noticed a window seat, a deep, beige, grey and green striped cushion making it an attractive place to sit. He knelt on it and tried to find out something about his surroundings. He was looking out into a vast grass green space, dotted with blotches of different colour, dark green in the background. A garden. Vines, wisteria and roses clung to the wall around the window. Harry imagined how their perfumed scent would pervade the room.

Could he open the window, or would it be locked? Would some magic hinder him to touch it? He hesitated a moment, what if it didn't open? That would show him he was more of a prisoner, than a guest, despite Malfoy's nice words. Taking a deep breath to prepare himself for the imminent disappointment or a likely shock of pain if the window was somehow magically secured, he gingerly stretched out his hand and turned the knob in the middle.

The window frame gave easily, it swung open. Warmth and the beautiful fragrance of the roses streamed inside. Harry grinned. He knew he must look completely silly with such a beaming smile for no reason. But here was nobody to judge him. Nobody to hurl vile words at him.

He leaned over the window sill. Below was a small terrace. Harry could just make out several chairs and a table. A riot of colour in the flowers beds adjoining the terrace greeted him, although without his glasses he couldn't make out exactly what plants grew outside. The reflection of the sun twinkled and flashed from a surface beyond the lawn, maybe a pond or lake? The murmur of rippling water created a soothing background noise. Maybe there was a fountain at the other side of the house? It must be late morning, or early noon to judge by the hight of the sun and the temperature, another hot day.

Harry sat back on the window seat and simply enjoyed the light, the warmth, the tranquil quiet of this country estate, only broken by the song of a meadowlark above and doing absolutely nothing. He felt as if he was dreaming, this was so new and completely different compared to a morning at Privet Drive.

The grumbling of his stomach and a sudden soft hoot from behind interrupted his musings. Thrilled he swivelled around and stood to rush towards the familiar sound.

"Hedwig!"

His heart swelled from joy and relief. There, next to the wall on a dark wooden dresser stood her cage, the door closed and Hedwig was sitting inside, blinking sleepily at him. Harry dashed over to her. He wanted to rip open the cage door, but was brought up short by a small scroll suddenly popping up in front of him. It unfurled, smoking around the edges, and then Lucius Malfoy's voice drawled, "Harry, please don't let your owl out before reading my letter." The note disintegrated in a shower of silver sparkles.

What the fuck? Why? Was this a polite version of a Howler? Harry shrugged and proceeded to open the door. Hedwig shuffled back and forth, clicking her beak and hooting softly, obviously happy that her master had discovered her. Stretching out his hand he began to gently caress her wonderfully soft feathers. She turned her head and nipped him affectionate in return.

"Oh Hedwig! I'm so happy you're okay, girl. How did you get here?" Harry whispered, feeling ridiculously happy, blinking to chase off the prickling feeling in the corners of his eyes.

Then his still sleepy mind started to process what his eyes told him.

Hedwig was sitting in her cage. There was a water and a food dish filled with owl treats inside. Her cage! Somebody must have brought it from Surrey. Who? How?

Oh yes, Voldemort had mentioned last night that he sent that other man, Garrick Avery, back there. Harry looked around the room for his trunk. Yes, there it was, standing in the corner right next to the dresser. He glanced again at the smooth, polished surface in front of him and noticed that to the left of Hedwig's cage lay something square, beige and white. A note or letter? A closer look revealed that there were several pieces of parchment and paper. He picked them all up, went back to sit down in the window seat and started to read the elegant script of the topmost letter, leaving the rest of the stack on the cushion beside him.

_Good Morning Harry,_

_I trust you slept well?_

Yeah, thanks Mr Malfoy, Harry commented in his mind, remembering only vaguely how the blond wizard had escorted him back to his room late last night, tucked him into bed – Harry blushed, he was so not used to this - and dosed him liberally with Sleeping Draught.

_Your owl turned up and as you predicted, she was smart enough to wait in a tree a safe distance away from the front gate. _

Good girl, Harry thought.

_There was a tracking charm on her, but she carried no post for you._

_Hedwig can stay with you, or she can stay at our Owlery, whatever you favour. _

_Please resist the temptation to send her off with any letters you might want to write, as I have placed a ring on her leg that is tied to the outer wards. _

_Your owl can fly around in the gardens and hunt, but not leave without my or the Dark Lord's explicit permission. A precaution you will surely understand. _

_If you force her to attempt to fly through the wards, you play with her life, and yours, for that matter. Remember your vow?_

Oh. Now Harry understood the note on the cage door. This was sobering, but he was more than glad that Mr Malfoy went out of his way to explain. He didn't have to, Harry could have figured this out by himself. Which he would have done in time, most likely right after he'd gotten his faithful familiar killed by his usual impulsive stupidity and disregard of the rules, like Snape would comment. Harry quickly shoved the memory of Cedric staring up at him with empty eyes away, instead he got up and looked at Hedwig's legs.

There was a small silver circlet around her left leg, with some tiny runes carved into it. He didn't recognize them, and not for the first time he regretted taking Divination because Ron said this subject was supposed to be easy, instead of something useful, like Ancient Runes. Hermione had mentioned that they where essential to understand advanced magic, like in warding, or in an interesting, demanding job like what Bill did, breaking curses in Egyptian tombs.

Harry sat down again on the cosy window seat and turned his attention back to the letter.

_Avery managed to acquire your school trunk and bird cage. _

How? Harry wondered

_Debby brought them into your room this morning. As my personal servant she can enter, so please don't be alarmed. _

_In the bathroom cabinet is a selection of Potions, use at your discretion. Dosage is on the labels._

_The shower and other facilities in the bathroom are charmed to react to your presence, so you should manage without your wand, which is still in the keep of my Lord._

Oh, of course, Voldemort still had his wand. Harry had noticed that it wasn't on his night stand. He rose and went to the bathroom to take a dose of Anti-Nausea, Pain Reliever, general Healing Potion, Strengthening Solution, and Blood-Replenishing Potion, washing it all down with two glasses full of delicious, cool tap water. In the cabinet he also found a toothbrush, tooth paste and two small jars of that marvellous Bruise balm and Burn salve. However he wanted first to eat breakfast, then take a shower or bath before applying the stuff.

The talking mirror scolded him again for looking like he just fell out of bed in the middle of the day, but Harry only grumbled, "Shut the fuck up, will you?" The mirror huffed scandalized at his choice of words and lack of manners.

His curiosity drove him back to the letter, more news where much more important to him than a few bruises and scars or unkempt hair. He wasn't vain like Draco!

_Call upon Debby if you wish anything (within reason)._

_She can also bring you books from the main library that are fit for a young man like you – no advanced Dark Arts books yet, I'm afraid._

Reading this, Harry could see Mr Malfoy's smirking face right in front of him.

_As you need new glasses, I shall arrange a private appointment - preferably outside their regular business hours to avoid any undue attention to your person - at Hawks-Eyes in Diagon Alley. Alternatively, you could attempt to correct your eyesight permanently with the help of a certain Occulus potion. However, I do not recommend this course of action at the present, as the potion in question is  
>1. presently illegal in Britain,<br>(Some dark pure-blood families use it on their children if necessary, well before they start Hogwarts, so no outsider knows or takes notice.  
>You might have observed that only very few older wizards or fellow students wear glasses compared to Muggles?)<br>2. requires an expert Potions Master like Severus to brew,  
>3. the treatment is described as rather painful and protracted.<br>Using this option would raise questions you could not answer satisfactory in your current position in society. Therefore you'll have to make do with new glasses, until the political situation has changed favourably. _

_Have a nice day,_

_LM_

Wow. Harry was impressed by Malfoy's thoughtfulness and very grateful for the information. He put this letter to the side. The next parchment he picked up was written in a different script.

_Mr Potter,_

_My Lord asked me to inform you of last night's events at Privet Drive. As He told you, I went back to investigate. _

_Your cousin appears to have been kissed. He was discovered by a friend, Piers, and your uncle. A Muggle ambulance vehicle transported Dursley junior to a hospital. Your relatives were very upset, so much that they have renounced kinship and refuse to ever let you back into their house – not that you would feel any inclination to return, as we both know. Your aunt wrote a scathing letter to you and Dumbledore, sealing it with her blood. Through her acts (loudly spoken words and this letter) the blood wards tied to the property were completely disintegrated. We suppose that the Headmaster has taken notice immediately._

_About your possessions:_

_Your uncle went into the house and brought your trunk and birdcage outside with the intention that you should find them to know that you are not wanted there any more. He included some items he found under your bed. I hope everything is complete?_

_In that alleyway were the Dementors attacked you, I met a large black dog – your godfather, Sirius Black. Don't worry, he is all right. We did not kill each other, surprisingly. I managed to convince Black to hold a temporary truce and to observe the Muggles, especially your relatives. He was very worried about you, and appalled by the Dursleys' attitude and what that implied. He pelted me with questions. _

_I disclosed that tonight  
>- your uncle nearly killed you,<br>- that you were later attacked by a Dementor,  
>- that you are currently recuperating at a safe location,<br>- that you'd rather die by the Dark Lord's hand than go back to that house on Privet Drive and therefore don't want Dumbledore informed. _

_Black was completely shocked and asked me to relate to you his deepest regret. He said that he didn't know or suspect at all how dire your situation was, that he loves you, and that he wants to make it up to you. _

_There is of course the question of why he didn't know or even suspect about anything pertaining to your plight, and why he didn't take better care of you. _

_He seemed sincere in his distress, but wasn't ready to believe me or to accept the ugly truth he witnessed with his own eyes, how much your (former?) aunt and uncle hate you. It's a wonder he even listened. Sirius Black was after all well known for his arrogance, obstinacy, temper and rashness during school and as an adult during the war. Maybe Azkaban did him some good?_

_Of course, your godfather is still firmly of the opinion that the Order of the Phoenix under Dumbledore's leadership is the Good, the right side. He cannot imagine your dear Headmaster or his fellow Order members knowingly leaving his godson with abusive Muggles, far less contemplate possible reasons or justifications for this outrage. Well, I hope Black heeds my advice and takes a good look at your Ex-relatives house, perhaps he will find something that convinces him that a Slytherin does not always lie._

_GA_

Harry swallowed thickly, that was quite a report. He felt deep, cutting sorrow and longing towards Sirius coupled with confusion and fury towards him, his friends and Dumbledore. He was immensely grateful towards Avery and Voldemort for this letter. Now he wouldn't spend the rest of the day worrying and speculating about what might have happened in Little Whinging last night.

The next piece of paper Harry looked at was a folded Muggle newspaper page. Daily Mail, the Surrey local page, from August 3rd. One article was marked in bright yellow, flashing like the markings on one of Hermione's study planners.

_**Tragic Accident or Crime?  
><strong> Junior Box champion falls into coma from unknown cause! Ashford doctors baffled_!

Blared the headline. Underneath was written in a much smaller script _by Emma Reynolds._

_Last night, Dudley Dursley, the well known Junior Heavy Weight box champion from Smeltings High, was found unconscious in an alleyway in his home town of Little Whinging. He was transferred to Ashford Hospital and admitted to the Emergency ward._

_Several witnesses described his state as most peculiar. A spokeswoman for the Ashford hospital said, 'We have not yet determined any cause to the patient's condition. We hope that the patient will regain consciousness again. It is too soon to make any predictions, our doctors will make every effort to help him.'_

_Mrs Polkins, 39, said, 'My son found his best friend lying on the ground in that alleyway. I was there, I saw how Dudley was lifted onto a stretcher and pushed into the back of the Ambulance vehicle. He was just lying there, stiff as a board, with eyes open, jaw slack. No reaction whatsoever, like a breathing corpse. Horrible! What happened to that kid?'_

_Another neighbour, who did not want to be named, said: 'Young Dudley was quite stocky, but he was fit, well trained, wasn't he? He and the other boys are always about, I often saw them jogging or bicycling down the road, and I watched him boxing in several competitions. Why should he suddenly suffer a stroke or something? Very fishy business, if you ask me!' _

_The father, Mr V. Dursley, director of the renowned Grunnings Drill Company, was seen leaving the Ashford hospital in the early morning hours, but refused any comment._

_The Surrey police have begun an investigation. They urge anyone having noticed something that might shed light on this tragic accident or possible attack last evening to come forward. The young man was last seen perfectly healthy and in good spirits by his friends at about 21.15 pm in Little Whinging, on the corner of Magnolia Road and Magnolia Crescent on his way home. _

Oh. That was interesting. Well, Harry thought, it was evening and then pitch black so suddenly, I don't think any Muggle has seen anything of what happened in that alleyway. Could I get into trouble? Not very likely. But what if somebody has seen me leaving the play park and following Dudley from a distance? Oh well, the Muggle police can't find me here, should some neighbour point a finger at me, at the 'criminal hooligan attending St. Brutus.'

Harry looked again to his left, there was some quite thick paper, which turned out to be the folded Daily Prophet of today. He inhaled sharply when he opened it and scanned the front page. No article – yet - about the missing in action Boy Who Lived, but a report with the fat headline,

**_Dementors out of control near London?_**

The article was full of speculation, but it quoted the article in the Muggle newspaper of that morning that Harry had already read, and that an early morning radio news broadcast on the local Muggle radio station of the BBC had mentioned the same information. A young Muggle found with a most strange medical condition in a town in Surrey, the Muggle doctors (which were their kind of healers) unable to explain the cause or to heal him.

The reporter of the Prophet, a Mr Wyman Rackharrow, wrote that he had spoken to Muggles in the neighbourhood, and two had mentioned that they had felt a sudden cold and dread for no apparent reason when they had stepped out into their gardens on the previous, very warm evening, so they went quickly back inside and closed all doors and windows. This had happened just at the same time young Mr Dursley had left his friends, and before he was found an hour later. The description was vague, but to Harry it sounded as if these people must live in the houses to the left and right bordering on the alleyway.

The article explained that Muggles could not see Dementors like wizards and witches, but that it was known well that they could feel the effects, a feeling of unease growing to depression and despair that the guardians of Azkaban caused. The last time a large number of Muggles was exposed to Dementors had been in September 1993 in Dufftown, Scotland. The inhabitants of the town had panicked when Dementors arrived to search for the notorious criminal Sirus Black.

Then the author questioned the ability of the Ministry to keep track of the Dementors and demanded to know if all the registered Azkaban guards had been accounted for, or if it was normal that some of them went off for a 'nightly stroll' in Muggle inhabited areas.  
>How come that obviously nobody on duty in the DMLE or Azkaban had noticed anything amiss?<br>Would these Dementors visit Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley tonight or next week and attack innocent wizarding folk?  
>What would the ICW have to say about this newest and rather severe breach of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy in Britain?<br>As of yet, there was no statement from the Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge or from Albus Dumbledore, the Supreme Mugwamp of the ICW.

Harry grinned reading this, until his growling stomach urgently demanded his attention. Remembering Malfoy's words, he snapped his fingers and called our, "Debby!"

After a moment, the little house elf appeared. "Good morning, Mr Potter!"

"Good morning Debby. Would you please bring me some breakfast? Just a piece of toast and some porridge and juice, if it is not too much trouble?"

The little elf bounced and smiled at him excitedly. "Debby is preparing a very nice breakfast for Mr Potter. Tea or coffee or hot chocolate?"

"Oh, um. I've never had coffee. I don't know if I like it, I remember it smells good, though."

"Debby will provide, and Mr Potter can try different things, yes?" And the house elf popped away, before Harry could say anything else.

Not a minute later, she was back, balancing an impossibly large tray filled with precious fine bone china and delicious smelling food over her head. Harry stared dismayed at the feast that the over eager house elf served for him on a coffee table in front of the couch. There was a mountain of crunchy toast and a dish of warm porridge, but also poached, fried and scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, still sizzling sausages, baked beans, fried mushrooms, orange marmalade, lemon curd, strawberry and cherry jam and blackcurrant jelly, honey, some small bowls filled with different fruits, four small glass pitchers with two different juices and warm and cold milk, cups of peppermint and black tea and additionally a cup of coffee.

"Oh Debby, this is much too much!" he exclaimed. "You shouldn't have made such an effort. Really, I can't eat all this."

Debby looked crestfallen. "But, Mr Potter is so thin, please try a bite of everything? Debby likes to cook so much. Doesn't young master guest like anything of this? Please, try to eat something?"

"Yes, I will try what you made Debby, this looks super," Harry praised. "Thank you very much. But I can't finish it, impossible. My stomach must get used to food again slowly. I need small portions several times a day, you know? Something else, could you get me some of Draco's old clothes that might fit me? Casual trousers, simple shirts, not fine dress shirts, the like? And some shoes? Mr Malfoy said you know where Draco's old stuff is kept, in the attic?"

The little elf stared at him wide-eyed, nodded, curtsied and popped away again. Harry sighed, in this regard Debby seemed to be very similar to Dobby and the Hogwarts house elves, too eager to please. He got up from the window seat and went to the settee to start his breakfast. It tasted as delicious as it looked and smelled, but far too soon his stomach felt full again, so he only took small bites to at least try the different flavours. He pushed the fried sausages aside, there was no way he could stomach something so rich and greasy. The peppermint tea was soothing for his stomach, very good. He tried a few sips of coffee and added quite a lot of sugar and milk to the cup until he liked it.

Debby came back after a while with a trunk. She set it on the ground and turned towards the bed, with a few snaps of her fingers it was made and the coverlet pulled straight. After that, she opened the trunk and directed the clothes in the blink of an eye onto the bed, set neatly next to each other. She looked expectantly at Harry, who got up to take a look, after brushing off the crumbs on his fingers.

"Um, thanks Debby. Doesn't Draco have any really casual clothes, like jeans and tee shirts?" Harry asked, taking in the selection spread out for him.

Debby wrung her small hands. "Mr Potter does not like? They are what is fitting for a young heir of the Malfoy family. The material is very good, like new. Please look, all is well cleaned and ironed."

Harry glanced over the items and took note of the petite house elf's attire too. Debby looked smart and clean, she wore a crisp, neatly ironed pillowcase with a small golden M on her chest. She didn't appear so dirty or run down like Dobby or Winky at all, quite the opposite, healthy and happy, like the Hogwarts' house elves.

"Yes, yes, I see," Harry answered to Debby's last comment. "Everything seems to be in perfect condition. Only, it's not what I'd call casual clothes... These are elegant robes, dress shirts and good trousers, you know? But maybe that's because I've never had decent clothes or wizard style robes before, apart from my school robes and uniform."

Debby looked near tears. "Mr Potter does not have good clothes of his own? Why not? Mr Harry Potter is a famous young wizard! Debby does not understand."

Harry pressed his lips together in shame and anger as he thought of the Dursleys dumping a black bin bag full of Dudley's old clothes into his room at the beginning of each summer holiday and telling him to be grateful for that. He knew that Petunia had selected the most baggy, washed out items for his use. The bulk of Dudley's outgrown clothes, the almost new, hardly worn designer stuff, went to the local Oxfam shop.

"My old family – they were not very nice, you know? They didn't like me," he answered the question of the house elf over his shoulder, while striding over to his trunk. He didn't see the shocked and pitying look on Debby's face, before she turned towards the task of cleaning up the remains of Harry's breakfast, asking in a quivering voice, "Does young master not want more to eat? Did Mr Potter not like Debby's breakfast?"

"Oh no, thank you Debby. I love your cooking, everything is perfect, but much too much. As I said earlier, I can't eat very much today. It takes time, okay?" Harry shrugged and blushed, but told himself to remain firm. He would not try to eat more to please the house elf, only to get sick later and puke everything out again, despite the potion he had taken as a precaution.

He knelt down and opened the lid of his trunk, staring at the contend. All his worldly possessions were there, obviously thrown haphazardly into the trunk. On top was one of the familiar bin bags of Aunt Petunia's. No, not Aunt Petunia any more, that title felt wrong now. She never behaved towards him like an aunt was supposed to. Harry picked up the bin bag and tipped it upside down. The Marauders' Map fell out, his photo album, the few letters that he had received during the past few weeks, a birthday card from Hermione and a box of Honeydukes' best chocolate he'd gotten from his friends; all the stuff he'd kept hidden under the loose floorboard below his bed.

He started to sort through the mix of items in the trunk, throwing out any rags of Dudley's he found. Everything he owned was in it, mostly books and black school robes, scraps of parchment, broken quills, his cauldron, but he couldn't find the Invisibility cloak. Where was it? And where was his Firebolt? Sitting back on his haunches, he thought about it. Either Vernon hadn't put them in, or somebody had taken them out again. That was it probably, Malfoy or Voldemort surely had looked into his trunk before Debby was ordered to bring it to him. As a precaution, same as with Hedwig.

Sighing, Harry decided that it was no use fretting over the broom and cloak. He'd have to wait and find an opportunity later or tomorrow to ask for his most prized possessions, offer Voldemort some reassurance that he would not use them to spy or run away. In the meantime, he intended to indulge himself with a good soak in that large, old fashioned bathtub.

But first he grabbed his old trainers and all of the second hand rags of Dudley's and stuffed them into the empty bin bag. He'd have to ask Debby later what to do with it - it would be a good feeling to burn the blasted grubby stuff in the fireplace, but the weather was much too hot for a fire, and he didn't have his wand to cast _Incendio_.

After emerging from his luxurious bath all squeaky clean and smelling like he imagined a ship full of exotic woods and spices sailing on the wind blown ocean might smell, Harry rifled through the stack of Draco's clothes that Debby had placed on his bed.

For underwear there were only boxer shorts, made of - silk. Unbelievable, only tailored, black or grey and silver striped silk boxers. Wow. Talk about up-market, huh? Harry thought. Not one item of clothing on the bed was fit to wear for manual work, like house cleaning or gardening. Draco likely didn't know how to cook, clean or weed, the spoiled ponce.

Sliding a simple black boxer over his legs and hips, he marvelled how the fabric felt so cool, smooth, perfect, exotic and – dare he think that – kind of erotic on his skin. He'd never touched or even seen anything like this, certainly not on his room-mates at Hogwarts. Harry could not resist running his fingertips from over his thighs, the fabric of the shorts up to his stomach and back down, grazing his willie. Oh, wow. This felt splendid, so different to Dudley's dreadful pants, and to the equally awful and mortifying memories of his life at Privet Drive. But that was in the past, it was over. Harry firmly told himself to shake it off. He was determined to find joy in life again, to indulge himself when possible, even if it was only for a few short hours, days or weeks, depending on Voldemort's whims.

Intending to later stow them away into the wardrobe, Harry set the white and black high collar silk dress shirts, fine black trousers and heavily silver embroidered, luxurious black and charcoal grey brocade, velvet and silk robes to the side, These outfits were something to maybe wear in the evening to a formal dinner party or to a ball, far too elegant in his eyes for everyday use.

He choose a grey shirt of a light weight, soft material, maybe silk woven together with cotton, with slightly wide arms that narrowed again at his wrists, to be closed with two cuff-links in the form of small, coiled up green dragons. What kind is that? he wondered, Welsh Green, or an artists fantasy?

The shirt had a low collar that he left unfastened because of the warm weather. Next he shrugged on a bottle green shimmering tailored, robe to wear over the shirt. He liked the colour, very similar to his dress robes for the Yule ball. This sleeveless summer robe was close fitting over his chest and stomach like a waistcoat, flaring out below and covering his legs down to his feet. The garment was made of some finely woven fabric, which looked like the most delicate tweed, but felt very cool and lightweight. Some blue and brown threads accompanied the green ones. Harry didn't know, maybe it was made from silk, cotton and linen blended together? The small buttons were fashioned in the likeness of spirals, tiny coiled snakes.

A supple, black leather belt with an interestingly sculptured silver belt buckle completed the attire, showing Celtic spirals and knots flowing into each other like some complicated maze, with a Welsh Green in the centre of the buckle. Harry was fascinated by the small dragon figurine, it was animated and reacted to his fingertip probing touch with moving its wings and rearing up momentarily, before it sat down again on its haunches, opening its mouth wide to roar at him.

Checking himself in the mirror, which whistled admiringly, Harry wasn't sure what to think of this new look; especially the absence of jeans or other trousers. To his London suburbia, Dursley raised mind, the outfit was too similar to a woman's dress, or to clothes worn by males from far away, maybe Asia or Africa. It did look stylish, and felt comfortable despite the heat outside. The bottle green hues in the robe brought out the colour of his eyes nicely, underlined by the small green dragon on the belt. He looked like a Slytherin wizard. Malfoy and Voldemort would approve. Good that he was alone in this room, that his Gryffindor house mates couldn't see him – that would not go over well. Ron's betrayed, outraged glare, or Neville's uneasy, frightened look appeared in his mind's eye.

He remembered seeing other male wizards either at Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley or at the Quidditch World Cup wearing simple robes, or long, wide, flowing robes, several layers like Dumbledore, Snape or Voldemort. All these outfits were often combined with a cloak, depending in the time of the year and the weather.

During the holidays, Ron, George and Fred had worn typical Muggle style clothes, like jeans, T-shirts or button down shirts, pullovers and short jackets. Mr and Mrs Weasley he'd never seen other than in more or less shabby robes, besides when Mr Weasley had dressed Muggle in jeans and a golf jumper last summer at the World Cup. There had been a marked difference in style between the poor, Muggle friendly Weasleys and the elegant pure-blood Malfoy family or other guests of the top box.

Oh well, he was on the other side of the fence now, it was best to fit in. Harry sat down again on the window seat, basking in the sunshine and the wonderful fragrance of the roses and other flowers growing outside. He relished the fact that he didn't have to cut the roses or weed this huge garden! Leaning back against the cushions, he soon curled up and dozed off.

* * *

><p>Harry woke up abruptly twice. The first time from a strange honking, screaming sound from outside, that scared him, until he peered out of the window and spied two white blobs moving near the flowerbeds below. The white things turned out to be two large birds. The peacocks! Harry remembered that Mr Malfoy told him about peacocks. He'd seen normal peacocks before, that time at the zoo and on the camp site of the Quidditch World Cup. Harry settled back onto his nest of cushions next to the window and fell asleep again.<p>

The second time he woke up was because of a dream, which turned into the familiar nightmare of the last task of the Triwizard tournament, running, running through the maze and what followed. Only this time Harry managed to wake himself up on his own, shortly after arriving at the graveyard. Cedric had already fallen down lifeless next to him in a burst of green light and Wormtail just tied him to the gravestone of Voldemort's father. Panting, his forehead covered in cold sweat, Harry rubbed his eyes and sighed. Looking around the bedroom and outside, he reassured himself that everything was all right and that neither Wormtail, nor Voldemort stood over him, knife or wand pointed at his heart, ready to murder him. Harry shivered and hugged himself, staring into nothing.

Out of the blue, Harry felt a twinge in his scar, and a sudden intense urge to go to Voldemort. It felt similar to the night before, when the elder wizard had summoned Mr Malfoy and his bloody scar had throbbed in the very same moment as Malfoy's left arm had flinched. Harry assumed that the wizard's Dark Mark had burnt or hurt. While getting up, he looked outside again, it was now afternoon judging by the sun's position.

He quickly went to the bathroom, to drink a glass of water, use the toilet and wash his face and hands, trying to get rid of the lingering tension from the nightmare. His hair stood up in all directions, so he made another futile attempt to comb it and flatten it down with water.

The talking mirror watched his efforts a minute, before suggesting, "If you don't know how to cut and charm your hair into something neat and fashionable, then at least use some hair gel to tame that black mop. There, over to your right, that little blue glass jar, yes, that one! Honestly, where did you grow up, lad? In a pigsty? You cannot be related to the Malfoys."

Harry grumbled, but followed its advice. He didn't like to admit it, but the stuff helped, well somewhat. But he so didn't want to look like a complete copy of Draco! He tried for a casual, wavy look, not everything slicked back. A face not unlike the student Tom Riddle peered back at him. Huh. Weird!

He was unsure if the way his scar felt was coincidence, or did Voldemort find a way to call him on purpose? But maybe he hadn't called Harry, but simply one of his Death Eaters, and Harry had felt a kind of echo? Like with those strange dreams he had had last year about the Dark Lord. In any case he thought it best to go now and see what Voldemort wanted. If it was a false alarm, he could go right back to his room. Or maybe the wizard would permit him to spend time with Nagini?

Carefully opening the door of his room, Harry peered out into the corridor, it was empty. After listening for a moment, if somebody was on the floor below or walking up the stairs, he slipped out, closing his door with a soft snick. He walked swiftly to the door of the study, knocked and waited, like Malfoy had told him. Self-consciously, he smoothed out some wrinkles in his robe, brushed his fringe back out of habit, straightened his posture and told himself to breathe slowly in and out. He felt quite unnerved by the prospect of facing the Dark Lord, despite the reassurance of last night, that he wouldn't kill him as long as Harry was 'useful'.

"Come in." Voldemort spoke curtly. The door opened abruptly on its own. Harry took a tentative step inside the now sun lit room, looking around. Voldemort, clad today in a light and charcoal grey robe, was seated at his desk, surrounded by a controlled chaos of files, letters, notebooks, roles of parchment, an open leather-bound book, and a stack of paper that looked like newspapers. He was writing furiously on a piece of parchment. On the windowsill sat a nondescript brown barn owl, obviously waiting for him to finish the letter. Harry scanned the room for Nagini, but couldn't spot her on first glance.

He didn't know what he should say or do, but thought that no greeting at all might be considered rude, so he ventured a friendly, "Good afternoon, sir. Did you wish to see me?" Bowing briefly he kept standing in the doorway. If that was wrong, Voldemort would surely tell him.

Voldemort looked up from his work, preoccupied. "Potter." His voice sounded pleased. "Do come in."

After stepping inside and closing the door behind him, Harry stood with his back to the door, waiting if another order would follow, there while looking around for a chair to sit in. The coffee table and the two chairs from the previous evening where in the near corner of the room, right next to the wall again, out of the way, so Harry walked there quietly and took a seat, intend on not disturbing the elder wizard.

Voldemort finished writing after a short while, rolled up the letter and tapped it with his wand. Harry assumed that he sealed it somehow, maybe charmed it so that only the recipient could open it? He rose and went to the window, said something to the post owl that Harry didn't catch, and then the bird took off into the hot, blue summer sky. Staring after it, the wizard rhythmically tapped his long, pale fingers on the windowsill for a moment, Harry could hear the sharp nails clicking.

Pivoting abruptly on his heel, his wide robe flaring, Voldemort finally turned his full attention to his young visitor, a slight frown on his features. Harry prepared himself mentally for a scolding or punishment for presuming to take a seat without permission. But last night Malfoy had allowed Harry on the settee in the living-room, and later they had both sat in these armchairs in front of the desk during their discussion.

Harry looked right into the crimson eyes, while grumbling to himself. How the fuck am I supposed to know what I'm allowed, and when, under what circumstances?

To his surprise, Voldemort raised an eyebrow, asking, "How indeed? Did I tell you to sit down?", as if in answer to Harry's unvoiced query.

"No, sir. Sorry sir," Harry answered promptly, jumping up from the chair. "But, I didn't know -"

"What to do," Voldemort finished the sentence. Oh crap, Harry thought. If something like this happened with Vernon, he was sure to be in pain. Excuses were futile, and totally unwelcome.

"Yes, it is rather difficult to follow the rules if you don't really know them, isn't it?" Voldemort remarked neutrally, his face blank, so that Harry couldn't gauge if the wizard was angry at him for perceived disrespect or not.

He frantically cast around in his lifetime of bad experiences with adults for a appropriate response. Malfoy had advised him to be respectful, to follow orders promptly, and to go to the study if he was called. But had he been called or not? Duh, I'm stupid, he thought. Voldemort told me to wait. If he hadn't wanted me in here, he would have sent me back to my room right away. Okay. Maybe I should've just waited by the door?

Harry was well aware that to fight against a punishment only brought more pain, it was best to get it over quickly, and it was always good form to voice apologises and show obedience towards adults in power when in doubt. At Hogwarts he acted cocky and defiant, because he had quickly learned that Filch or teachers like Snape wouldn't really hurt him. All bark, no bite. Snape put him down at every opportunity, scorned and ridiculed him, yes, but he'd never caned or hexed him. Cleaning cauldrons, disembowelling toads or polishing medals and trophies for an hour was tedious and unpleasant, but no severe punishment in Harry's book, compared to what awaited him each summer at 'home'.

But Voldemort, that was someone truly dangerous. Harry hadn't forgotten how much the Cruciatus curse cast on him in that graveyard had hurt. So he walked toward the tall wizard until he was in arms reach, and stood perfectly straight and still, face blank, eyes downcast, arms at his sides, like he used to face Vernon in a situation where he might still hope to appease him by acting properly obedient. Not that it had worked very often.

"Sorry, sir," Harry said.

Voldemort was pleased by Harry's acquiescent behaviour and neat, new attire. The young man looked well rested and cleaned up, like a pure-blood Slytherin. Very different compared to last night. But Potter was obviously nervous and afraid of him. He reached out and took hold of his chin, tilting Harry's face up again to re-establish eye contact. After a first spark, the skin under his fingertips tingled pleasantly, like last night. Remarkable. The boy cringed in fear or perhaps pain for a second, eyes wide, breathing faster, but didn't step back or resist otherwise. Very good self-control for such a young man.

_Legilimens_.

The magic slithered effortlessly through both their minds. Fear of a possible punishment dominated Harry's emotions, mixed with a bit of confusion, anger and shame that he couldn't do this right and didn't know how to act in Voldemort's presence, now that the two of them were alone, without Malfoy or Nagini to reassure him and to take cues from. In the background lingered the memory of a nightmare, the graveyard, of death, pain and terror. As sly and casual as he had entered Harry's mind,Voldemort withdrew again, and dropped his hand.

"Good boy. You'll learn my rules, in time. People do not sit down in my presence without my leave, all right, Harry? When I enter a room in which people are already seated, like around a meeting table, they all stand up, and only sit down again after I have taken a seat."

Harry answered softly, "Yes, sir," letting out the breath he'd held unconsciously. His normal angry response to being called 'Boy' was subdued by his relief that Voldemort wasn't pissed off, and that his touch didn't hurt. The scar on Harry's forehead reacted to Voldemort's presence, it tingled and throbbed, but that wasn't so bad, on the contrary. Voldemort's touch felt kind of – good! How come? Harry had expected pain.

Voldemort circled around him. Harry didn't move a muscle, and kept his eyes straight ahead, waiting, which required him fighting the instinct to turn around, to keep the potential threat in view. The elder wizard allowed his gaze to travel up and down his slender form, remarking, "Very nice. I like your new attire, it suits you."

Harry blushed, he wasn't used to compliments and it still kind of freaked him out when Voldemort spoke so - so not evil, not threatening. "Thanks, sir. These are Draco's old clothes."

"Ah, yes, of course."

Harry relaxed a fraction when Voldemort was beside him again, in his field of vision. The wizard towering over him didn't do anything, just studied him with a pensive expression.

Abruptly, Voldemort commanded in a sharp, cold voice, "Kneel." He was curious, how would Potter react?

Potter hesitated for a second. Frowning, he glared sidewise at him, before he set his jaw, and sank down at Voldemort's feet. Obedience, but reluctantly. This was all right for now, a honest reaction from Potter was better than faked, total compliance. He could see that the teen didn't want to do this, at all.

He circled once more around the kneeling boy, who looked very tense. "Are you comfortable in this position?"

"Um, no. Sir."

"Yesterday night you coped much better. You knelt quite a long time before me and Lucius, although you were injured and in pain."

"That – that was different," muttered Harry, flinching violently when he suddenly felt Voldemort behind him and a touch on top of his head, brushing his hair back. His scar gave another twinge. Fear washed over him. Harry's heart jumped into his throat, a whimper nearly made it to his lips, but he managed to stop it.

Fuck! Harry cursed silently in his mind. Voldemort's touching me! What the fuck does he want? I hate that, when I can't see him.

He stiffened more than he already was, balling his fists and drawing his shoulders up instinctively.

"Ah, ah, no. Not like this." He felt Voldemort's hand lightly stroking over his hair, tilting his head and pulling just at bit back and upwards. "Sit up more, chin up, back straight. Lower your shoulders. Open your hands, rest them on your thighs. Do not hold your breath, let it flow in and out."

A nudge in his back and strong fingertips were pulling his shoulders down and back a fraction. Another nudge between his feet, pushing them a bit apart. Harry gulped, petrified by fear and a turmoil of emotions in his stomach he could not place. The fingertips rested on his left shoulder for a moment, slid over the nape of his neck, the thumb moved around in a circle, caressing gently.

Harry trembled. Nobody had ever touched him like this. When Dudley and his gang had forced him to kneel before them, it had always been a scuffle, a fight, their aim to degrade him, to 'show him his place'.

"Relax. Breathe," Voldemort spoke softly, soothing from above and behind Harry.

Harry felt a slight movement, a soft brush downward again, towards his shoulder. Then fingers stroked over his hair briefly, smoothing it back again, before the hand disappeared. Harry released a breath.

"Yesss. Breathe, Harry. No need to panic. Kneel, but sit up more straight, chin up, rest on your calves and haunches. Be proud, you are a courageous, strong, powerful brave young man, show it. I do not want you cringing, grovelling low on the floor, like an imitation of Wormtail. You haven't done anything to warrant a severe punishment now."

Huh? Harry didn't know how to take this. He concentrated on following the command, settling down more comfortable and breathing. In and Out. It was okay, Voldemort didn't hurt him, but Harry wished that the man would move more forwards, so he could see him. Finally Voldemort walked around him again and stopped a few feet away, leaning against his desk, so that Harry could look up and see his face.

"You have never been trained properly to assume different positions, do you?" Voldemort studied him, his head tilted in question.

"What? Uhm. No." Harry cleared his throat. "Ahm, I don't know."

"Never mind."

"What do you mean? Sir?" asked Harry.

"Your Muggle uncle, did he tell you to stand or kneel in a certain way?" asked the wizard. "In which situations did he require this?"

"Um, Vernon only told me to lean against the wall in my room or my desk, when he wanted to beat me."

"How did he want you? Why this way?"

"My hands and arms either raised against the wall, shoulder high," Harry described. "Or forward, holding on to the desk. Legs out behind, feet apart shoulder wide. I guess because it was easier for him to hit me this way. And to degrade, to shame me, forcing me to stay this way, to just take his beating. I hate it."

"Hm. Why did you obey? What did he use to punish you?" Voldemort continued to pry. Harry averted his eyes, pressing his lips together firmly. He didn't answer. He didn't want to talk about this. At all.

"Tell me!" Voldemort's suddenly cold voice cracked over Harry like the belt he remembered. Only he knew that the dark wizard could easily inflict much more pain with one word than Vernon's worst trashing. Harry's scar gave a nasty throb.

"I had to obey, or it only got worse," Harry pressed out. Just like now, he though. "Over the years, I tried several times to run or to fight back. I tried again at the start of these holidays. I should have know better." He sighed and fell silent.

"What happened?" prompted Voldemort. Any follower this reluctant and defiant he would have cursed by now, but he'd decided to be as patient as possible with the boy. Harry needed to learn to obey him, but also to trust him.

"Vernon got Dudley to help him, and they both trashed me until I fell unconscious, and then some," Harry revealed. "It took me two days to heal enough to do my chores again. Aunt Petunia was so angry at him. Not that he and Dudley had beaten me up, mind you, only that they did too much damage. Vernon mostly used his belt, but he bought a new rattan cane somewhere. On the first evening of the summer holidays he told me to unpack it, as if it was a coming home present for me. The bastard."

"I see. Did you have to count the strokes?" Voldemort wanted to know. "Did he have clear rules, like how many blows for what type of misbehaviour from you? Did he ever touch you in a sexual manner before or after such punishment?"

"No, no, no, never!" Harry exclaimed, incensed and disturbed by the questions. He shuddered, the mere idea that Vernon could have forced Harry into such activities like Dudley and his gang did that time in the shed – disgusting, horrible. Eww!

When he didn't continue, Voldemort demanded, "Well? Elucidate."

"Huh?"

"Explain. And what did you do to warrant such harsh punishment?"

"What did I do? Nothing special. It didn't matter what I did, he always found a reason," Harry responded bitterly. "I could do all my chores to perfection, and he still found something that wasn't right. Not showing the right attitude. Glaring at him or Aunt Petunia or Dudley. Talk back. Ask questions. Use the forbidden M or W word."

"Stop. The M or W word?" interrupted Voldemort.

"Um, magic, wand, wizard, witch." Harry clarified. "My relatives are paranoid about magic, any mention is forbidden."

"Ah. Of course. What else lead to a punishment? Describe what your uncle usually did."

"Not being grateful enough for the food scraps or Dudley's cast off's I got. If Vernon has trouble at work, or that Dudley muffed his exams, it is always somehow my fault. Each time Vernon was pissed off enough to hit me, he was really angry, out of control. He just pulled me up the stairs and threw me into my room. He grabbed whatever he fancied in that moment and screamed that I asked for it, that he would not tolerate me endangering his family any more, and that he would cure me of my disgusting freakishness. Then he started to lay into me without plan or method, the fucking arsehole, until he got tired."

"Mind your language!" admonished Voldemort.

"Sorry, sir," Harry replied perfunctory.

"I understand your anger, but try to curb your tongue a bit." He huffed, frustrated. "It will take time, that we don't have," Voldemort remarked more to himself, before commanding in a louder voice, "Stand up."

Harry rose to his feet again, anger, hate, frustration, bitterness, embarrassment and fear bubbling inside like a volatile potions mix in a cauldron. What was he, a puppet? Why did Voldemort treat him this way? And why did he question him about that bloody fat piece of rotten whale lard shite? Harry wanted to forget Vernon, Dudley, Privet Drive, it was in the past. He barely managed to keep the irritation off his face and stood there, waiting. Voldemort circled around him again, this time Harry moved his head a fraction, to better keep track of the wizard out of the corner of his eye.

"What will take time? Sir?" Harry asked, sounding petulant to his own ears. All this talk about Vernon and those former unfair, cruel punishments brought back so many dark memories, old fears feeding the new fears. How would Voldemort punish him, if - no, when Harry managed to piss him off? Which would happen sooner or later, as sure as the sun rising every morning.

The other wizard didn't reply. He came to a stop behind Harry, who wanted to turn around. The taller man stopped the movement before it had begun by firmly placing both of his hands on Harry's shoulders. Harry flinched. His breath hitched in terror, he felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights, his whole body tense and stiff, but he did not dare to protest or jump away.

"Retraining you," Voldemort stated. "Correcting this. Your attitude. Your distrust against adults, your fear of touch. Your initial reluctance to obey, to follow rules."

Indignantly, Harry protested, "I do follow – ouch!" That felt like a Stinging hex. Blast, so Voldemort could cast that wand- and wordless? So not fair, Harry thought.

"Quiet, Potter, and don't move, but breathe." Voldemort held him steadily, firmly by the shoulders. Harry could feel the warmth of the man's body from behind, they stood almost together, only with perhaps a foot space between them. His thoughts tumbled over each other in a rushing panic. What? Help! I can't get away! And he feels so strange, that must be his Dark magic, it's so much stronger compared to Malfoy's. Oh Merlin, what does he want now?

Voldemort didn't need Legilimency to read Harry's emotions. "Shhh, Harry, calm down. I only want you to listen, and to get used to me. Breathe, yes, come on."

Harry tried to obey.

"You only follow rules if you see no way around them," Voldemort stated. "And you interpret them like you see fit. You need to relearn which rules are important and why." The hands on Harry's shoulders moved a bit, slowly, slowly stroking down to his upper arms, starting again at his spine, gliding down over his shoulders as if they would rub off lingering water droplets after a shower. His muscles were tense, but as the touch didn't hurt, Harry began to lower his shoulders, tried to relax.

"Your attitude at Hogwarts drives Severus up the wall. He believes you are incredible arrogant, like your father. I see that isn't the case at all. As you said it didn't matter what you did, your relatives still hated and punished you all the time. "

Harry felt one hand moving to the nape of his neck, a finger stroking up and down his spine, and back again to his shoulder, resting heavily on it.

"Now you fear me, my touch, no wonder considering your upbringing and our previous encounters. Your instincts tell you to resist, to fight or flee."

Harry shuddered, his breathing hitched, his muscles tensed again when he felt Voldemort whisper from right over his head, his warm breath near Harry's left ear. "And you're correct in fearing me, I could kill you so easily, snap your neck..."

He couldn't take it any more. On instinct, Harry jerked abruptly, raised his arms, struggled, tried to kick back, desperate to squirm out of the man's grip. A sharp hiss, and he felt his arms snap to his sides, his legs were forced together, his whole body suddenly rigid and stiff as a board. He fell backwards, or would have, if Voldemort had let him, but the taller man pulled him against his hard chest, holding on unwaveringly. Harry recognized the spell, this was the effect of _Petrificus Totalus_, the Body-Bind Curse. Oh shite!

His magic went wild, fighting against the hold of Voldemort's curse and hands, but it was a futile endeavour. The elder wizard subdued him quickly, Harry literally felt as if a heavy blanket of oppressive dark magic doused out his own magic to a helpless, powerless, spluttering, frustrated flame, waiting for a chance to flare up fiercely again.

"Shh. I won't hurt you," came Voldemort's voice from above again. "Well, not now at least. Do not fight me, Harry. Hold still. Trust me, I am going to release you. And breathe, before you pass out."

Harry felt the moment when Voldemort cancelled the curse. He swallowed thickly, glad he was able to move his head and fingers again, but his legs wouldn't cope supporting his weight, so he had to trust Voldemort to hold him steady. Harry's heart was pounding against his rips, his throat dry, his mind and emotions were in chaotic confusion. When nothing further happened, he calmed down again. A slight push from behind, and he stood on his feet again, trembling and sweating from all the adrenaline racing through his blood. He wanted to run away, but knew he couldn't, Voldemort would freeze him again in the blink of an eye.

"All right, can you stand on your own?"

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered hoarsely.

"Very well."

The hands on his shoulders moved again, together, outward again, gently rubbing over his back and the nape of his neck, drawing circles, stroking down his back, up again right and left of his spine and out towards his upper arms. A sparkle, a tingle followed in their wake, pleasurable warmth spread. Harry couldn't believe his senses. Voldemort was giving him a back-rub, infusing some of his magic, to relax him? Why doesn't he just hex and curse me, if he thinks I'm not obedient enough or showing the wrong attitude?

"You appear not to know the difference between suffering abuse and a receiving a reasonable punishment," Voldemort clarified. "Between obeying only out of fear and true submission, because you want to please. Lucius told me about last night, when he showed you the guest room. How you acted, what you thought would happen. Fear not, Lucius would never do that, regardless of how much he desired you. We want you respectful and obedient, yes. Not petrified from fear. To be alert, wary, aware of your surrounding, ready to act or react, that is good, healthy. But so much fear makes people stupid, you cannot think if you are so terrified of me or Lucius."

Harry didn't say anything, he couldn't formulate an adequate response, with all the emotions and confusing thoughts churning inside him. He always thought that Voldemort wanted all people to quake in fear of him. That was the whole point of being He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, wasn't it? Slowly, he got his breathing back under control and tried to obey, to relax, letting some of the tension go with the air flowing out between his lips. Voldemort 's warm hands were still on Harry's upper back, massaging his stiff shoulders in a leisurely way.

He'd never felt anything like this. He hadn't known that a man's touch could feel so good. Voluntarily he had only hugged Sirius, and Sirius was different, because he was his godfather. Lucius putting his arm around him, allowing Harry to doze leaning against him last night had been very nice, he'd felt safe. Well, it was later on, after Harry got over his initial mistrust and fear.

"Last night, in the study and later in my sitting room, you were much more relaxed compared to today. Was that only due to Nagini's presence?" Voldemort inquired, looking down.

"Uhm, yes, sir. She - she calms me down, I feel safe with her," Harry responded, turning his head to glance upwards into Voldemort's red eyes. "Please, sir, where is Nagini?"

"Outside, in the gardens or the fields and woods beyond, hunting."

"Oh, right." Harry nodded, thinking how beautiful the garden was, and that he would very much like to spend some time outside and see Nagini again. Would Voldemort allow him? Probably not. Oh, right, he'd meant to ask him about his cloak and broom. And what had Voldemort said, that he wanted Harry to trust him?

Harry dug up some more Gryffindor courage. "Um, sir? Can I ask something else?"

"You may," replied Voldemort, sounding rather amused, than irritated.

"How – how can I trust you?"

"You shall have to learn. You want me to trust you, you want to go outside. You want your cloak and broom back. Yes, I have your possessions. You should reciprocate, try to trust me. I am aware it is more than difficult, considering our past interactions."

Harry was dumbfounded. Again, Voldemort seemed to read his mind, he had answered to something Harry had talked to himself in his own head!

"Um, sir? I – I want to thank you. For my trunk, and the letters and the newspapers. For once I know what's going on. I appreciate that very much, and I understand why you kept my cloak and broom."

"You are welcome."

Voldemort stopped with the gentle touches. Changing his grip he turned Harry around and released him. He almost smiled reassuringly down at the boy, there was a definite upwards turn of the corner of his mouth.

"Better?"

Harry nodded.

"Very well. Why did you come to my study just now?"

"Because, um, I felt as if you were calling me, sir?" Harry replied.

"Ah. That's interesting. I was thinking of you, I wished to see you indeed." How strange, Voldemort thought.

* * *

><p>Stretching his hand out he summoned a piece of crumbled parchment from the desk, it was his list of notes and questions from last night.<p>

"So, Harry, Lucius mentioned that you know what a Pensieve is and how to use it?" inquired Voldemort business-like, boring his crimson orbs into Potter's green ones and wand – and voicelessly casting _Legilimens_ to again subtly probe his mind while they talked.

"Yes, sir. Well, I have seen Dumbledore's Pensieve once last year. I shouldn't have, but I was nosey. He stores memories in a stone basin like Mr Malfoy's, to examine and study them later. But I don't really know how it works or how to extract memories. Sir, what are you doing?" Potter frowned and reached up to rub his scar.

"Very well, I shall show you later. What you felt just now, that is called Legilimency, mind arts. Did that hurt?"

"No, sir. My scar, it throbbed a bit, but it always kind of tingles, stings or burns around you, or if I dream about you. If you look at me this way, it feels real strange, as if you were brushing against the inside of my head, behind my eyes, and as if you can read my mind. Like you did yesterday. I remembered just now what was inside Dumbledore's Pensieve. Did you see the same?"

What does he mean by 'it always tingles, stings or burns around you, or if I dream about you'? Voldemort made a note to ask the boy again later. This was becoming a long list.

"Yes, I probed your mind," he answered Potter's question. "Very gently, well by my standards. I did that a few times already. Your memory just now, you witnessed parts of a Death Eater trial in a Pensieve; you beheld how Dumbledore and Mad-Eye watched Karkaroff, the traitor, ratting out his comrades in front of the Wizengamot, did you not?"

"Oh. Yes, I did. Wait, so you really can read minds, sir?" Harry asked fascinated and worried at the same time.

"In a way. I can scan your feelings and memories. The mind is not a book, to be read at leisure, but I always know if someone lies. You cannot lie to Lord Voldemort. Dumbledore didn't warn you about this skill?"

"No. I didn't know something like this was possible, mind arts were never mentioned in any of our classes so far. Is that a kind of Dark Arts? Dumbledore never brought it up. He wouldn't you know, on principle. He never tells me important things like that flat out, always more riddles and half-truths."

Voldemort nodded, then he decided to test something that absolutely needed clarification. Stretching out his right hand, slowly, so that Harry could see what happened, he took hold of the boy's left forearm above the wrist, on the shirt sleeve. This time, Harry did not flinch away, but he looked up startled and distrustful. The elder wizard pulled, Harry complied by stepping closer, but the widening eyes and the expression on his face told that he didn't feel comfortable, that he was quite scared, again.

Holding the boy possessively with his other arm around his back, he calmly posed his next question. "Does this actually hurt you, being so close to me? Or do you only feel pain when I touch your scar directly, like I did in the graveyard?"

Feeling the boy tremble like a leaf in the wind again he growled impatiently, adding, "Calm down, Potter, for Merlin's sake! I will not harm you. I held you before, I touched your shoulders and back, that was not so bad, was it? I thought you enjoyed that."

Harry shuddered in his grip, breathing too fast. Finally he found his voice again, "No, yes, I don't know. The back-rub was really nice, it felt good. Thank you. But please sir, don't touch my scar. It stings and throbs, but I think just because I am so close to you. When you touched my neck it didn't hurt there directly. The feeling is concentrated in my forehead, where that cursed scar is. When you're really angry, like you were at the graveyard, or – or last night, when you saw how terrible I look like, it hurt fiercely."

"All right. Calm down Harry, don't panic. I just want to test something about this discomfort from your scar. Brace yourself." With these words, Voldemort moved his right hand first downward over the fabric of the shirt sleeve until he briefly touched the back of Potter's wrist. Then upward again, over the arm and shoulder to the neckline of the shirt. He stroked over the boys neck for a moment, then upward over his left cheekbone and temple to the forehead, moving slowly over the brows and tracing the zigzag form of the red, slightly raised lightning bolt shaped scar which elicited a hiss of discomfort from the teenager.

Voldemort withdrew his hand after brushing one salty tear away and loosened his grip around Potter's back. His fingertips tingled, how strange! He felt an intense urge to pull the boy closer to himself, to embrace him, to hold onto him, to – kiss him? Where did that come from?

"Well? How does this feel? Compared with the level of pain at my resurrection?" he asked, stomping down on his own irrational emotions.

Harry was breathing deeply, he was trying to push the confusion about his own insane feelings and the lingering fear of pain and panic away. Because it didn't feel so bad. He only expected it to hurt, expected it to be horrible to be held in such an embrace by a man, by Voldemort of all people. How could something so wrong feel even remotely good?

"It hurts a bit, it stings, all right?" he said. "My scar. When you touch my skin somewhere else, it's okay." He blushed, mortified. "Uhm, it even feels kind of good. Sorry sir, I know I shouldn't - "

"That's all right, Harry. I want you to be honest. Just describe what you feel or felt in your scar as precisely as possible," prompted Voldemort.

"Uhm, well. If you do not touch me, but are nearby, it's kind of like someone was massaging my brain with pins and needles, but not hard enough to hurt. When you touch my forehead, the feeling intensifies, as if the pins and needles in my brain are stabbing more forcefully, " Harry described the sensation as best as he could.

"In the graveyard, it was much, much worse. It hurt when you appeared, as if my head was cleaved open with an axe. And it was pure agony when you came near me and touched me. I thought I'd go insane or die from the pain. Maybe because you were so agitated, so furious on that night, feeling so much hatred toward me, and now you are much calmer in comparison? Please sir, could you let me go?"

"All right. Good to know that I can torture you with my mere touch, should I misplace my wand someday," Voldemort half teased and half threatened with an evil smirk, while taking mental notes of what Harry said and he himself had felt. This was so _not_ normal. It underlined the strong magical connection between them, created by the rebounded Killing Curse.

With a whisper of, "Lucky you," Harry stepped back a pace, trying to calm his racing heart.

Voldemort walked to the side table and took a seat in the armchair, inviting Harry over with a wave of his hand. "Come here, sit down." Snapping his fingers, he called the house elf and ordered tea for both of them, which was delivered not a minute later. He fixed a cup for himself and watched the boy sip his tea and nibble at a scone with jam for a while, mentally going over their previous conversation. Finally he glanced at his list of questions again and quickly jotted down another sentence.

"Harry?"

Harry looked up.

"Your scar tingles or hurts not only in my presence, but also when you dream about me? Is that correct?" inquired Voldemort.

"Yes, yes it does."

"When did you dream of me, and what?"

"Um, well, there are different dreams," Harry clarified. "One is very old. I see a green light and hear you killing my parents and casting the Killing Curse at me. As a little kid, I never saw anything clear, it was only the screaming and the flashes of green light, fear and pain. But in third year, when the Dementors came near me, the memories became clear. Since then, I remember and dream about that night. How you tell mum to move aside, her pleading for my life, you saying Avada Kedavra twice, and how the green light rushes towards me. Everything." Harry hugged himself.

"You really remember that?" asked Voldemort astonished.

"Hm, I do." Harry nodded.

"Remarkable. And the other dreams?"

"At Hogwarts, in first year, I got a headache when I dreamt about Professor Quirrell and his turban strangling me, hurting me, and after that detention in the Forbidden Forest, I got nightmares about you. I often had headaches that year. I didn't know the reason then, but later I did – that was you being near me, possessing professor Quirrell. Last summer, in August, I had a new dream. That was when you were in that old house of your father's family."

"What?" exclaimed Voldemort.

Harry flinched.

"Go on. How did you know? When was that? What did I do?"

"At first, I had no idea, I saw a dark room with a lit fireplace. There was a heavy chair. Wormtail was there, talking to you, but I could not see you, I only heard your voice, so cold. You were plotting to get to me, some plan or other. You talked about a faithful servant at Hogwarts, and about a person you had killed," Harry recounted the dream.

"Later I learned that that was Bertha Jorkins from the Ministry of Magic. In the dream, an old Muggle man eavesdropped on Wormtail and you. Nagini discovered him in the hallway and told you. Wormtail opened the door, bade the man inside, and you killed him, just like that. I woke up with my scar burning in pain, I thought you were right outside the Dursleys's house. I dreamed this a few days before the final game of the Quidditch World Cup." There was an accusatory tone in Harry's voice, remembering the fright and confusion this dream had caused him, and why did Voldemort have to murder that old man? Couldn't he have just oblivated him?

Listening to the boy's account, Voldemort's lip twitched with the hint of a smirk, when he remembered how good it had felt to finally be strong enough to kill first Berta and then later Frank Bryce. Then his eyes narrowed in bewilderment and worry. How in Salazar's name could Potter dream something that really happened, hundreds of miles away? Harry looked angry and accusatory at him.

_Legilimens._ A quick superficial mental scan showed that he was upset about Frank.

"Why does the fate of some random Muggle bother you?" Voldemort asked.

"You're impossible!" Harry exclaimed. "Why did you kill him, and why do you look so smug about it? He was just an old Muggle, too curious for his own good."

"Ah, too curious like a certain young wizard I know?" Voldemort smirked. "Never heard the saying, curiosity killed the cat? I had to kill him, and I relished in the opportunity. Enough of this."

Potter looked mutinous, but backed down and lowered his gaze.

"Any other dreams? When, and where?" Voldemort demanded.

"Yes, one. At the end of May, during the day, in Divination. It was after the incident with Mr Crouch, senior I mean. The tower room was so warm, and I fell asleep during class. I dreamt that an eagle owl brought you a letter. It was from the fake Moody, Barty Crouch junior, but I didn't know that at the time. Later, after the third task, it all made sense. Barty was at Hogwarts and killed Mr Crouch senior, his father, who had broken free from the Imperius Curse and tried to get to Hogwarts to warn Dumbledore about his son, Bertha Jorkins, Wormtail, you, and everything."

Voldemort stared at Harry, quite shocked and disquieted. How was this possible?

"How do you know so much?" he snapped urgently.

"Barty told me," the boy responded.

"What? When?" Jumping up, Voldemort couldn't contain his shock and outrage any longer. He'd wondered, of course, what exactly had happened at Hogwarts after Potter escaped him and returned with the Portkey to the castle. Barty had failed to return, had not send a note, so he had assumed that his loyal follower had been discovered.

When he eventually turned up at the graveyard about an hour later, Severus had told him that Barty junior had been kissed by a Dementor, which that bumbling fool Fudge had brought along as protection. However, Severus somehow failed to mention the rest of the story!

Harry covered from the sudden rage on Voldemort's face; he'd not seen him this angry since the graveyard. His scar throbbed painful. An aura of dark power seemed to shimmer and waver around the tall serpentine wizard, the glass in the window frames rattled, curtains moved, papers fluttered from the desk to the floor.

"You'd better explain Potter, quick! Why and what exactly did Barty tell you?" Voldemort demanded incensed, his wand all of a sudden trained on the boy.

"Yes, yes, I will, sir," Harry hurried to assure him, speaking quickly. "After - after I returned to Hogwarts with – with Cedric's body, Barty, in his guise as Moody, led me away. He brought me to his office, and there he questioned me, about what had happened at the graveyard. He gloated and talked about your brilliant plan, and how he helped you all along. I thought he'd gone insane. He wanted to kill me, but then Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape came to the rescue. The Polyjuice potion, it stopped working, so Moody changed before my eyes into Barty. Dumbledore told Snape to get Veritaserum, and then Barty told us everything, explained what had happened in the previous year in detail." He gasped for breath, having rushed through his speech.

Livid, Voldemort towered over Harry, eyes blazing with crimson fire, teeth bared, upper lip curled, trembling from suppressed rage.

Harry's head seemed to be stabbed with a glowing needle. He pressed his lips firmly together to keep the gasps of pain and the whimper of fear that threatened to escape him inside, but he still couldn't stop his hand from pressing against his forehead and a tear leaking out of the corner of his eye. Fuck, that hurt!

With what looked like a tremendous effort, Voldemort held back cursing him and abruptly strode to the door, snapping over his shoulder, "Stay, don't touch anything. I'll be back soon. Here, read this." A small book left the bookcase on the opposite wall and soared towards Harry, who caught it automatically with his left hand and placed it on the coffee table.

Harry stared after him when the door had banged shut, then he sunk down on a chair and shivered. What he'd told the Dark Lord had set him off, so much that he left? Why? This must mean much more to him, than to Harry, who got the feeling that he should count himself very lucky to not have been tortured like Wormtail had been in that dream. He listened, but could hear nothing, so he got up and walked to the window to look out into the garden. A sharp _Crack_ rent the late afternoon silence. Voldemort must have Disapparated. Where would he go? Harry had no idea. Gouging by the persistent headache, Voldemort was absolutely furious, royally pissed off.

After five minutes, Harry had enough of staring out the window. Blinking he massaged his temples, while he looked around the study. It was in quite a disorder, parchment and papers had fluttered from the desk on to the floor. Over a decade of training by the Dursleys had Harry starting to clean up automatically, he picked up the papers and put them back onto the desk, sorting them into stacks. Newspapers on one stack, letters onto another, which left files and parchment with notes and what looked like complicated Arithmancy calculations besides them.

He didn't read anything of this. He was a curious person, but now he was for once determined to not let himself be tempted snooping through the Dark Lord's correspondence. Voldemort was already in a terrible temper, no need to aggravate him further. Suddenly Harry remembered the order not to touch anything. Uups. Should he throw everything down again? No, stupid, what's done is done, Voldemort would notice anyway.

Sighing, Harry took his seat again and waited, listening to the birds outside, his stomach twisting itself into knots of worry. The headache was better now, but not completely gone yet. He picked up the book and paged through. Why did Voldemort want him to read this? Bulfinch's The Age of Fable. It was a dusty, worn Muggle book, over a hundred years old, about Greek and Roman Mythology. Huh? Harry scratched his neck. Why would someone like Voldemort have such an old Muggle book in his library?

Starting at random in the middle, he was soon enthralled by the adventures of the young Perseus. He was a son of Jupiter, set adrift as a child with his mum because of some bloody oracle. Likely some crazy old fraud like Trelawney spouted some words, Perseus' grandfather took the drivel seriously and that ruined his life, Harry thought. Poor bloke. But, this Perseus got help from some kind king and two gods. Good.

Reading on, Harry realized that his Head of house, Professor McGonagall, had the same given name as the goddess mentioned in the tale, Minerva. Oh. Out of jealousy, Minerva – the goddess - transfigured the hair of a beautiful maiden into writhing serpents, that caused anyone to look at this monster to - what? This was exactly the same as with the Basilisk, people were petrified! And Perseus – now that was interesting – used something like Hermione had done, a kind of mirror, only he used the polished shield to look into so he could kill the monster. Harry blinked, he'd never known this tale. I must ask Hermione, maybe she read this book before Hogwarts and that is what gave her the idea back in second year that saved her life?

About twenty minutes had passed, before Harry heard someone walking in the hallway outside towards him. The door flew open and Voldemort strode into his study, his robes billowing menacingly like Snape's did. He stopped abruptly and took in the state of the room, and Harry's form curled up in the chair where he'd left him. The boy looked nervous, the very picture of guilt. Narrowing his eyes, Voldemort pinned the boy to the seat with his gaze. He arched a questioning eyebrow, stating, "Very efficient, the Malfoy house elves, aren't they?" His voice was cold, so cold.

"I – I didn't read anything, honestly!" Harry blurted out, scrambling out of his chair and kneeling on the floor before the wizard, bowing his head low on instinct, not thinking, not able to do anything else. He could feel anger and oppressive magic pouring off of Voldemort.

"I just picked your stuff up. I didn't mean to pry or snoop. Sorry sir." He waited, breathing fast, his heart, again, beating frantically.

"What did I tell you before I left this room?"

"To wait and not to touch anything. Sir. Sorry, sir."

Harry didn't hear any incantation, but he felt a sharp throb in his scar and magic rushing towards him. Oh shit!

His world exploded in burning pain. Everything seemed to be on fire and at the same time frozen, his hair, his skin, his lungs, his bones, his blood scorched by red hot flames or stabbed by ice-sickles, he couldn't tell the difference, only that it bloody hurt! He tried not to scream, but couldn't hold in a pained cry, which trailed of into a keening wail. But he would not beg, he wouldn't. Harry curled up in a small ball.

It was over as soon as it had started. He heaved a few deep breaths and then dared to look up, wiping his eyes and nose with his sleeve quickly. Was that everything? This curse hadn't been so bad, compared with the endless, absolute agony in the graveyard.

"I appreciate that you wanted to clean up, but that was not necessary. I can do that myself with a few flicks of my wand," Voldemort said calmly. "You need to learn to follow orders, Harry. Have you considered that certain objects, files or letters might be charmed or cursed to protect my privacy? You could have been hurt or killed. There are for example Dark curses that rot your flesh or drive you insane with pain on touching the cursed object, you know? If the counter is not cast right away, they tend to be fatal."

"Oh. I – I didn't know – I didn't think - ," Harry stammered, pushing himself up with his arms from the floor into a kneeling position.

"That is glaringly obvious." Voldemort stared down at the boy. "Your rashness and impulsiveness will get you killed someday. Please use your common sense and strive to be more careful."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir," Harry murmured, feeling heat travel up his neck. Gods, he was such an idiot sometimes. He had endangered himself, or his friends in the past years a few times already. He'd led Cedric straight to his death, just because he wanted to be fair. Now he'd earned himself a punishment because he'd cleaned up like a good house elf, and Voldemort of all people was concerned for his safety; similar to Mr Malfoy last night.

Voldemort didn't say anything further; he walked over to the free chair across from Harry's and took a seat, stretching out his long legs before crossing one ankle over his knee. When Harry didn't attempt to move from his position on the rug on his own, he nodded, pleased. "Get up, return to your chair."

Harry hurried to obey, picking up the book that he'd dropped earlier on the way. When seated again, he studied the man, trying to gauge what Voldemort had done in his absence and if his mood was better now. The red eyes were still blazing, but a bit muted now, the wizard seemed alert, but not as furious and dangerous as before, somewhat calmer, sated. Harry's headache had stopped, thank Merlin, and the Dark Lord's voice wasn't as cold and cruel any more when he spoke to him.

There were some specks on Voldemort's robe that Harry hadn't noticed before, and another small spot or some grime on the side of his jaw. Harry leaned forward without thinking, to better see what dirt or whatever it was, when he became aware of a faint coppery odour he recognized, and then the all too familiar colour of the specks registered in his mind.

"Blood! You have blood splattered on your robe and face!" he blurted out aghast, pointing at the Dark Lord for a moment, before his conscious caught up with his actions and he snatched his hand back, covering his mouth, fearing punishment for being so rude.

Voldemort sent him a brief glare, before waving his hand in a nonchalant gesture over himself. Instantly the specks vanished. "Better?" he asked calmly.

"Uhm, yes sir, all clean again," Harry mumbled, too scared and disgusted to ask who the poor sod was that had the misfortune to be the victim of the Dark Lord's temper. He was sorry that someone, somewhere met a gruesome end, but very grateful that Voldemort had not let off steam inside the study, on him. But – why? Why would Voldemort hold so much back on cursing him? Come to think of it, he'd been very patient with Harry, not only last night, but also this afternoon.

After taping the teapot with his wand to reheat it, Voldemort asked, "Tea?" politely, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"Yes, please," said Harry automatically, reaching over to fill up his cup with slightly shaking fingers, putting in a dash of milk and two lumps of sugar. He needed that, right now.

"Go on then, describe that dream."

"Pardon? Sir?" Harry looked up from the fascinating, swirling depths of his teacup.

"The dream you were telling me about earlier, with the letter from Barty?" Voldemort reminded him.

"Oh, yes, of course. I flew as if I was on the back of that owl, to an old ivy covered house on top of a hill, to a dark room. I saw the back of a chair. I didn't see you, how you looked like, only heard your voice. You were talking with Nagini and Wormtail. You said that his blunder had been corrected; you would not feed him to Nagini, but me. Somebody was dead. Then you tortured him, Wormtail, with Cruciatus. I woke up screaming and clutching my scar, it hurt so badly."

Voldemort asked, "What did you do?" although he could guess the answer already.

"I went to Dumbledore, to tell him about the dream. He didn't know what was going on, but he was sure that the disappearances of Frank Bryce, Bertha Jorkins and Mr Crouch were somehow connected, and that you were getting stronger."

"Hm, yes he would think that. But, how did he know about Frank Bryce? Did he have any explanation for your dream?"

"Dumbledore told me he reads Muggle newspapers, so he learned about the disappearance of Frank Bryce," Harry clarified. "He believes that my scar hurts whenever you are near me, or if you are feeling a surge of hatred, because we are somehow connected."

"How?"

Harry just shrugged helplessly.

Voldemort's fingers tapped absently on the rim of his teacup. He set it down and picked up his list of questions again, before looking at him again.

"By the way, did you start reading the Bulfinch's?"

"What? Oh, yes, sir, I did. Thanks for lending me the book. It's surprisingly interesting. I started with the tale of Perseus and Medusa."

"Very well. Indeed, you should read that." Voldemort sounded very preoccupied before he lapsed into silence again, reading over his notes and scribbling something down, frowning.

Harry didn't ask why the tale of Perseus was especially good for him, he just waited, opening the book again to glance at the next page. After the Medusa was killed, Perseus faced Atlas and a Sea monster, which he managed to also kill eventually. Sounds like my life, Harry thought, one adventure after the other. No wonder people think I'm a bloody hero.

"So Harry, last night you mentioned your ability to speak to snakes," Voldemort stated, startling him out of his read. "You said you found out in your second year, and people turned on you. What happened?"

Harry quickly closed the book and gathered his wits. "Yeah. Well, in second year there was that disaster of a Duelling Club with Professor Lockhart, the fraud. Have you ever heard of him?"

Voldemort nodded and gestured for Harry to get on with his tale.

"So, Draco and I stood there on the platform and tried to hex each other. He conjured a snake with Serpensortia, to frighten me I suppose. The idiot Lockhart cast some spell to vanish it, with the only result that the snake was extremely pissed off. It slithered towards the students standing at the side of the platform. I thought it was going to bite Justin, so I cried Stop! Professor Snape quickly got rid of the snake."

"All was well then, wasn't it?" commented Voldemort.

"Yeah, one would think so. But the other students went completely bonkers, only because I had hissed something at that snake. Honestly, in the heat of the moment I hadn't noticed that I spoke in another language. I had no clue why everybody was so frightened of me, why people suddenly became so hostile. Ron and Hermione had to explain." Harry grimaced in remembrance of how the students had turned on him. "You know, I didn't know that there was such a language like Parseltongue at all, or that Salazar Slytherin had been a Parselmouth, or that Voldemort was one. The whole school suddenly believed that I was the heir of Slytherin, or your heir, or something, the new Dark Lord in training. It was crazy."

"Ah, I understand." Voldemort nodded, regarding the boy contemplatively. "Although you should have known about Salazar Slytherin and me. Didn't you read Hogwarts, a History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts?"

Harry went brick red. "No, I didn't. You sound like Hermione."

"Hmpf." Voldemort huffed. "Does Dumbledore have any explanation for your ability to speak?"

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, he told me later that you must have transferred some of your powers on me, when your Killing Curse rebounded. Not intentionally, of course."

Voldemort's scarce eyebrows nearly hit his none existing hairline. "Did he say that?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, exactly like this. We, uhm, we discussed you. I was worried because there seemed to be uncanny similarities between you and me. You know, both orphans, half-bloods, raised by Muggles, both Parselmouths; but Dumbledore was adamant that it is our choices who define us. You went bad and I am good." He snorted loudly. "As if it is that simple."

The elder wizard sat there speechless, contemplating what they had just discussed. He wondered, why had neither Severus, nor Lucius mentioned this incident so far? If several students had heard Harry hiss at that serpent, then Draco and Severus must have heard that too, or not? And then, Dumbledore told Harry not only about Tom Riddle's background, but that he, Lord Voldemort, had transferred some of his powers _on_ the boy? That was impossible. Well, impossible under normal circumstances.

A wizard could not simply transfer his magic onto another person just like that! Otherwise pure-blood parents could help their children born as squibs, and consequently there would not be any squibs.

Voldemort was beginning to get a very, very bad feeling. No, he'd had a bad feeling earlier, now he was downright concerned. Picking up his parchment with the notes from yesterday, he read again what he had jotted down last night and this afternoon about Potter's scar and Nagini's ramblings.

_Lucius and Garrick protect P. because he's so abused?_

_N: we are alike, a feeling of mate or kinship.  
>She <span>likes<span> P.? She protects him. Why?  
>N: Feeling like a sun warmth rock, comfortable.<em>

_P. cannot be my biological son. What does she mean with kin or mate?_

_P. reacts unexpectedly positive towards N., he feels comforted by her. Why? He should fear her._

_A speaker! How can HP be a speaker?_

_The hat wanted P. in Slytherin! 'I would do well in Slytherin, that house would help me on my way to greatness.' Nearly the same wording as my own sorting. Coincidence? Hardly._

_Our wands are brother wands. P.'s wand feels compatible, a near match. What are the odds of us two buying these two specific wands over 50 years apart? When did Olivander craft them? How did he know to eventually bring out the Holly wand for P.?_

_Holly - Phoenix – Yew. Protection. Resurrection - Rebirth - Immortality!_

_Evidence of Dark Magic in P's forehead?_  
><em>Residue from the rebounded AK still discernible after all these years? Should be impossible.<em>

_P. seems to suffer from constant headaches in my presence, but not all the time?_

_The Dementors claim that HP is not like others, he is special. Call him 'The Dark Lord's own.'_

_Lucius: P. feels something when I call; he shows signs of a headache right after L. felt the DM burn from my summons._

_Why am I so jealous when I see P. getting on well with L.?_

_I want him to really trust me. I want to touch him, hold him, and more? This is irrelevant. Why? What is wrong with me?_

_In my presence the scar is tingling or hurting, and P. has been dreaming about me?  
>What did he dream? When?<br>He dreams of real scenes that took place hundreds of miles away, right when it happened. As if he could look into my head and out of my eyes, or watch me from the outside at the same time. _

_Reacts with pain in his scar to my emotions.  
>The more violent and negative the emotions, the more it hurts? <em>

And Potter comes here, claims he felt me calling him, when I didn't – well, I thought of him, yes, I wanted to speak with him, see him. Yesterday, and today, it was so very easy to scan his mind, no resistance at all. I answered as if he had spoken out loud.

And how I feel about him, this _connection_, this conviction of _Mine_. And I hesitate to hurt him. I care? No, I don't! Since when do I care about anybody, besides my sweet, loyal Nagini? Such an uncommonly strong feeling. Irrational. Illogical. How come?

Oh, no.

Surely not?

However, what did that Dementor say? Such a peculiar wording. I should visit the Pensieve again, and best take Potter with me, show him. Do the Dementors feel our connection? They do know all about souls, devouring them all the time, I suppose … Yes, that would make sense. Perfect sense.

Oh Salazar. Is Potter my Horcrux?

_Mine! _

Voldemort sat back, shocked by his revelation, flabbergasted and suddenly afraid. Is this what The Prophesy foretold?

_'He told me in second year that you must have transferred some of your powers on me, when your Killing Curse rebounded. Not intentionally, of course.' _

_'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ...'_

Harry Potter is my seventh Horcrux. Oh no. What have I done?!

{Oh yesssss. Thisss explainss everything,} his mind's voice supplied. Or was this Nagini's comment, butting in through that unstable mind link they had?

His gaze snapped to the old book he'd given Potter to read to keep him from making mischief. He'd read that book himself as an eleven year boy, devoured the ancient Greek and Roman myths, the tales of fate, heroes and gods; of supernatural beings and immense powers, _of magic_, already before he knew what he was, a wizard.

Oh, by Morgana's and Mordred's darkest curses! What a complete, utter fool I am, Voldemort thought grimly. This is a bloody self-fulfilling prophesy, just like with Oedipus, Croesus, Perseus, Romulus and Remus. I attacked Potter to eliminate the possible threat, and thereby empowered the child with my powers, so that he might be able to vanquish me like the prophesy starts out to begin with.

His mother's sacrifice did vanquish me in a way. What does this mean? Is the Prophesy already fulfilled? No, because there must be a reason why we share brother wands. There must be more. Will we fight again and again, until we kill each other? Or could this turn into something positive, like I thought yesterday? With Potter sharing my powers, could he help me? Stay neutral, or better, work for me, fight for me, not against me? If he does, victory is in my grasp.

Why didn't I notice this right away, in his first year? Quirenius nearly killed the boy! I almost killed him in the graveyard! Now I must keep Harry safe, protect him. How? Dear Hecate, oh vengeful Goddess of Sorcery, help me! How shall I proceed? Voldemort asked himself. How do I limit the damage already done? Keep this a secret - or not?

Well, I could tell him there is a prophesy about us and that Dumbledore kept this secret all these years. Hopefully that will shock him into agreeing to help me retrieve the blasted thing. I could always try - . No, better he wants to find that orb on his own; he'll be determined to succeed. Wormtail said Potter is proficient at snooping around. Hmmm.

Perchance Potter could ask Dumbledore directly? Stage a huge temper tantrum, demand answers … could he pull that off convincingly enough without giving away what he already knows? I can use a Geas and … Potter would have to learn Occlumency right away. Nearly impossible, he is too young, and so very emotional.

It might be easier if Lucius takes him along... also a huge risk … In any case, I have to find out where exactly these prophesy spheres are kept … if only Rockwood was here, he best knows his way around that Department of Mysteries - maybe Nagini can get inside and scout it out?

Harry noticed that Voldemort had totally spaced out. The man was awake, but obviously miles away mentally, staring off into nothing. Something seemed to bother him very much. His face had paled still more, if that was possible, he was breathing faster and he had a haunted look on his face, as if something had completely shocked him. Harry didn't know what that could be, from their previous discussion. He'd told Voldemort about Dumbledore's ideas, about the supposed transfer of power. Was that it?

Suddenly, the fireplace lit up, green flames flared high with a rushing sound. Harry jumped. What – oh, he realized, there is a Floo call coming in. Someone wants to speak to Voldemort, or maybe wants to come here. What to do? Nobody is supposed to see me. Should I just leave and go to my room? But would that be showing disrespect, not waiting to be dismissed? I'm not sure how he'll take that? And I suppose Voldemort doesn't want somebody else to see him like this, quite unsettled and not on top of his game.

Harry had to do something quickly. He got up from his chair and stepped close to Voldemort's chair, a bit to the left side, intending to duck out of the way if necessary – he had no idea how Voldemort would react. The sorcerer didn't really sleep, but he would be caught unaware, would be startled and probably respond quite violently.

"Sir?" No reaction. Harry reached out tentatively and shook Voldemort's shoulder. "Voldemort?"

That worked. The Dark Lord jumped up and stared down at Harry, his right hand pulling his wand out so fast that Harry saw only a blur before the wand tip, glowing ominously bright red, was touching his chest. He blurted out quickly, "Sorry, sir, but – the Floo has activated!" pointing over to the fireplace and hoped that he would not get cursed.

Voldemort's head swivelled over to the fireplace, in which a male head appeared right in that moment, moving to the left and right, as if the other wizard tried to see where the occupant of the study was. Quick as a flash, Voldemort cast _Tempus_ – it confirmed that it was already five o'clock, and another spell at Harry, who felt heavy fabric covering him from head to toe all of a sudden. It was a full length black cloak with a cowl to hide his features.

{Go to your room. Eat dinner. Stay out of the way and be quiet, until I come to you or call you again,} hissed Voldemort in a low voice in Parseltongue {Thank you, Harry} he added sincerely, reaching out his hand to briefly caress the raven hair and pull the cowl a bit more down to Harry's great astonishment.

What was going on now? Talk about mood swings, Voldemort is worse than a proverbial pregnant woman, Harry mused.

Swiftly walking to the door, he congratulated himself that he had chosen the right course of action. Phew. He watched how Voldemort strode towards the fireplace, waving his wand around, perhaps to dispel some security charm, or to erect a silencing barrier, like he'd done last night while he talked with Mr Malfoy. Who might be calling now? Harry wondered, as he slipped out of the study, closing the heavy wooden door firmly behind him.

Turning around, he wanted to hurry down the hallway, but he tripped over something and barely managed to catch himself from crashing onto the rug covered hardwood floor. "What the hell?"

{Hey! Don't ssstep onto my tail!} An enraged hiss sounded below him.

"Oh!"

{Clumpsssy two legged nuisssance, can't you watch where you're going? Oh, that's you! Not ssso hasssty, little raven.}

{Ssorry, I'm so sssorry, I didn't mean to!} Harry hastily apologized. {Nagini, it'sss you! Great to sssee you again! Do you want to come along to my room, and tell me about your day?}

{Yessss, lead the way, Flattertongue,} hissed the huge snake. {What have you been up to today? Why was massster so angry?}

* * *

><p>AN-2:<br>The Bulfinch's book about ancient Mythology named 'The Age of Fable' does exist in the real world, although I own only a paperback reprint, and not the original first edition like his Lordship. Perseus tale is on p. 93 to 98.  
>I'm just freaking out here a bit, watching my Traffic Stats page explode. People from 71 countries around the planet are reading this story. Incredibly awesome. :-P How shall I find the courage to write more, how to meet your expectations? I'll just try my best. THANK YOU EVERYBODY!<p> 


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